


darling, so it goes

by thatgirlwho



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Declarations Of Love, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Graphic Depictions of Past Child Abuse, Heavy Angst, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marriage/Engagement, Mission Fic, No Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, past Rentboy Eggsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 12:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 88,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11463717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgirlwho/pseuds/thatgirlwho
Summary: Eggsy never thought he'd get married. Or that he would even consider it. He thought, if he was really lucky, maybe he'd find someone to love him; like really love him. Something kind of like the love his mum and dad had.It's love like that. And he feels he can't accept anything less.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Please heed warnings in tags.** There may be some triggering scenes and graphic depictions of violence/fights/past abuse. While it does end happily, there is a lot of angst in here. Please read with caution.
> 
> Art by the wonderful, talented and lovely **[meetingyourmaker](http://meetingyourmaker.tumblr.com/post/162848034043/darling-so-it-goes-eggsy-never-thought-hed-get)** (link goes to the tumblr post with art!). Still reeling that we got paired together--it's been a delight! Please go give love and reblogs because holy tamoles, I nearly cried when I saw it.
> 
> If you love music as much as I do, I have a [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/girlindisguise/playlist/72UxGrz4rrrMpOTlFWCECo) featuring all the songs I listened to while writing this.

>   
>  _Like a river flows_  
>  _Surely to the sea_  
>  _Darling, so it goes_  
>  _Some things are meant to be_

As Eggsy walks down the hall, he catches sight of the setting sun through the window and realizes with a surreal kind of acknowledgment that the office is going to be an east-facing room, in a wing of the mansion he hasn't been in before. Somehow it still strikes him as odd, completely overwhelming, the massive breadth of the Kingsman estate. Despite his months here, he has yet to see all of what the mansion has hidden away. It makes him feel uneasy, knowing that within the labyrinthine halls and behind the endless unmarked doors, things exist that he has no knowledge of, that he may very well never come to know of. That the secrets kept far outweigh the things he has been told. 

The white marble floor is polished to a reflective sheen and his Oxfords click steadily across the empty hallway, making it seem more cavernous than it is. He’s later than he anticipated, but the debrief meeting for his last mission had dragged on, with Eggsy having to explain his lack of thorough report filing and bitterly defend his apparent excessive use of lighter grenades. He had stepped out of the room, exhausted and disoriented, dragging his hands down his face in defeat. 

He's always has to make an effort to be aware of where he is: making note of the tall paned windows at his side giving an unhindered view of the grounds sprawling out before him, the polished brass plaques on the door (rooms denoting restricted access or vague indications of what lays inside and a mix of code names he hasn't quite memorized who's face belongs to which), the steady breathing he has adopted as of late for when he steps foot back onto London soil.

It’s a flickering ungrounded feeling, a kind of fuzzing or humming static that spreads throughout him, acutely aware of his surroundings and yet it comes at him as if from underwater: rippling, slow to process, slippery and hard to grasp. It always feels like that, after coming back home. He’ll feel lost, stuck in some place he can’t explain even to himself, for a few days, before it goes back to normal.

Normal, he tells himself. He wonders, with his hand on the door handle to the office, if she will ask about this. He hopes she won't. 

She’s already facing him, standing by her desk, hands tucked into her neat trouser pockets—not tailored, he can tell right away, but of good cut and quality—waiting for him when he knocks on the door and enters. 

_Sorry I'm late_ , he says. _Meeting ran over and—_

She raises her hand to stop him; she's smiling, wide and kind. _It's alright. I understand how these things go. I've stopped operating under the idea that I will lead regular office hours._ She steps forward and holds out her hand towards him. _It’s good to meet you, Gary._

He takes her hand: firm grip, not too tight, perfunctory and professional and assertive but welcoming. _Eggsy’s fine._

_Well, good to meet you, Eggsy. You can call me Gwen._

_Short for Guinevere, then? Everybody got some sort of code name?_

She smiles wider, amused. _Short for Gwendolyn, actually. Would you like anything? Tea, coffee, water?_

Eggsy shakes his head, settles into the chair she’s gestured to. Once he sits, so does she, perched on the edge of her own seat. She reaches for a neat folder of creamy white with red tab and string holding it closed, holding it deftly between her fingers to catch any loose papers within. Eggsy tries to ignore the sudden grip of panic, of old familiar guilt and shame and frustration, that runs through him. He squares his shoulders. She doesn’t seem to notice. 

Gwen looks directly at him when she talks, her tone kindly and sensible and with what seemed limitless patience. _I want you to know that you are free to talk about anything in here. It does not have to be about your job or missions. You can talk about good things, bad things, things that are going on in your everyday life. If you want to talk about your missions, that's fine, too. It's anything that comes to your mind. You don't have to talk at all, if it's what you want._

Eggsy nods as she says all this, rolling his lips back across his teeth, watching her hands move: waving, wrists balanced on her knees; fingers spread out and motioning around the room; finger nails drumming once against the file. He picks at a piece of thread on the arm chair while she talks, rubbing his thumb up and down the raised seam. 

_Now,_ Gwen says affably, _what is it that you would like to talk about today?_

Eggsy raises an eyebrow, his hand falling into his lap. _Arthur told me it's mandatory. For new agents._

 _It is, it is. But there must be something you want to discuss._ When he doesn’t answer, she adds, as if it will make a difference, _I've read your file._

His gaze drifts as if pulled there to the folder in her lap: she has it resting on her open palm, the other hand spread on top of what looks like a basic record form. Beneath her thumb in the corner is what he instantly recognizes as his recruitment picture: the belligerent, mulish look, his chin turned up in a show of defiance, eyes challenging. He remembers that day out on the quad, the air chilly in late spring despite the clear sky and glaring sun, remembers vividly the lanky pinch-faced support staff that stood before him with a camera: he didn't ask Eggsy to smile and Eggsy never thought to. 

They had not asked him for a new picture since then. He wonders, idly, if the other agent’s files all contain the same surly defiant looks of their youth, buried under updated versions: he can see Harry, with his pursed lips and cocked eyebrow; Merlin, the dour look so particular to him less intimidating with his youthfulness; Percival and his flat, unimpressed gaze taking on a more irreverent edge; Bedivere with the greedy look of the need to impress, to outdo, looking a bit manic without the wear of years on him; Lamorak, possibly the only hopeful looking one and how, if compared side by side, it probably would look no different than he was today, only difference to be found in the laugh lines, the crows feet around his bright eyes, the salt and pepper hair at his temples. 

All of them, caught in some distant past, a ghost image of who they were once were, remnants of what they left behind to become who they were. He can't even fathom who he will be decades from now, what faded, burnt in image on a dark screen flickering that he will see when he looks back to this point in time. If he will recognize himself when he does. 

Eggsy looks back to her, her soft round face and caring eyes. He's still not used to this casual invasion of privacy, having his life put on display, that Kingsman seems to practice without much hesitation, the staggering amount of information, about anyone he could think to look up, all at his fingertips. Implicit trust, a requirement that goes unsaid. 

_Yeah?_ Eggsy smirks at her. _Real page turner, innit?_

Gwen folds her hands in her laps; she covers his picture. _You don't want to be here._

He scoffs but it has no real ire behind it. _That obvious? Don't know who would._

 _You would go to medical after a mission if you were injured, would you not? It's much the same. What goes on up here—_ And here, she taps her left temple and Eggsy suddenly feels sick, stomach curdling— _left unchecked and unattended, can be just as damaging._

 _You saying I'm damaged?_ He meant it as joke; it comes out considerably less, with much more bite than he intended.

 _We all are, just a little bit, don't you think?_ Gwen says this with a small smile, affectionate and seeming to offer an assurance, inviting in his trust. 

Eggsy sits back in the chair, hands resting on the arms. _I thought all this lot wouldn't talk about this kind of thing. All of them, the rest of the agents, it doesn't seem to bother them or… I dunno,_ he trails off, faltering _._

_What gave you that impression?_

He blinks up at her, caught off guard. He doesn't say because he's not exactly sure. Just a feeling, he guesses. 

_So,_ Gwen tries again, _what would you like to talk about today?_

_—_

Eggsy never thought he'd get married. Or that he would even consider it. 

Not that he had anything against it—it just didn't seem to suit him, pretty far down on his list of options, stacked beneath all the usuals like _street thug_ and _unemployed fuck-up_ and _janitor at Tesco who sells the teenage cashiers weed for extra cash_. He didn't set himself up as a possible or even wise choice. For a long time, he decided he didn't even want that kind of commitment, in the days when he thought only as far ahead as the night looming before him with vicious promise, when the only person that mattered was _me, myself and I_.

He thought, if he was really lucky, maybe he'd find someone to love him; like really love him. Something kind of like the love his mum and dad had. Not that it was perfect, Eggsy knew that well enough, that those kinds of things couldn't fall into such definitives; he learned that quickly and young enough that it carved a softer, more hopeful part off of him, like what happened with most of his hard-earned life lessons. 

But there is the flickers of memories that seem as real and vivid as the day they happened: of his dad coming home (when he still came home, in a time that feels like those days never existed, some dream he had that he thought so hard and so long on, he had tricked himself into believing it happened) and scooping his mum into a kiss that made her shriek with laughter; of his mom on bad days, when she was tired and run ragged, and his dad sitting on his knees in front of her, head resting in her lap, his hands wrapped around her waist, waiting with his almost infuriating patience until she would sigh softly and lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head; of the moments where everything seemed to go warm and gentle in the world, like an old movie with the light-lined hazy edges, when his dad plucked his mum from wherever she was—busy cooking a late supper at the stove or bent over her book at the kitchen table—to dance her around their tiny, cramped flat. 

And there's something to be said for having that kind of love, that even after they are gone and you know they're not coming back, no matter how much you wish and beg and pray, even when you never did before and never will again, for it—it's the that kind of love that stays with you. 

When the days seemed longest after his dad was gone, his mum looking so far away that Eggsy was terrified in that naive innocent way only a child can have that maybe this time she wouldn't come back, all he had to do was take the Elvis Presley cassette tape his dad kept in the second kitchen drawer, from where it was buried beneath the hand towels and dishcloths, slide it into the tape deck, and wind it forward to their favourite song. The one they usually danced to, whether Lee took the time to get the tape out or if he hummed it loudly as he spun Michelle gracefully past discarded toys and folded laundry and forgotten supper dishes, a bad attempt to keep in tune, just to hear her laugh. 

_Wise men say only fools rush in_ —

Eggsy would sit beside her and put his small hand inside hers. He would sit and listen intently to the music, hearing every note and chord, mouthing the words as best he could remember, bouncing his legs against the couch, until she slowly came back, blinking at him like she didn't know she had been gone. She'd blink and glance around with dull eyes and sometimes she'd cry. She'd kiss the sides of Eggsy face, press her hands to his cheeks until they ached and then ask, _Wanna dance, love?_

It's love like that. And he feels he can't accept anything less than it: the remnants of the last good thing in his life. 

\- -

Truth be told—a truth Eggsy keeps his own because he realizes how stupid it is in almost immediate hindsight—he thought when Harry first asked him on a date, he was having a laugh. 

Eggsy felt caught, exposed, startled into impassivity, as Harry watched him, face nearly unreadable and that was what set Eggsy off. He couldn't tell what Harry meant, if the words were meant to imply something else with a more cutting intention, if Harry truly had that awful sense of humour, taking expense of other people's embarrassments and misjudgements. He knew this was all untrue, that Harry would never do these things, but—it was the first thing he thought of, gut instinct, and those are always the hardest to be rid of. 

Eggsy spent far too long squinting into Harry’s glasses wondering if Merlin was listening in on the other end. 

Roxy had called whatever this was _pining_ and the word made his stomach turn in knots. It sounded so unnecessarily dramatic. Yeah, Eggsy would be a liar if he said he didn't have a bit of a lingering gander at Harry after he laid out Dean’s goons at the pub on the day they first met. But who wouldn't take a second, more discerning look at someone who brought down half a dozen guys without so much as breaking a sweat? He was just expressing his gratitude and admiration by gaping at Harry a bit stupidly. Harry hadn't seemed to mind so Eggsy refused to apologize for it. 

And maybe he looked up to Harry a bit more than he should have once his training began, sought out his presence more than rightly needed, stayed far longer than was proper when Harry was in that hospital bed for months. But,really—Eggsy was certain anyone who met the man couldn't help but walk away a little dazed, a little infatuated, yearning to know more in a unusual, blurred craving for it. 

And maybe it didn't get better when they thought Harry was dead, when Eggsy stared down the barrel of that gun the same as Harry, seconds stretched out further and further apart and maybe this time, luck would be on his side, just this _one time_ —

And—it got worse, how fucking unbelievable that it got _worse_ , when Merlin shook Eggsy out of his nervy half-sleep where he had passed out huddled on a chair in the plane, Merlin’s eyes oddly wet behind the glasses and a quivering grin on his face to tell him Harry's alive. 

_Eggsy, he's alive—he's fucking alive._

He'd repeat those words over and over the rest of the flight to Kentucky, standing in the lavatory, pressing his knuckles to his eyes, trying to remind himself he was actually here, this was real, even if everything seemed to drift fitfully, untethered, around him like being suspended in a swell of an ocean wave. It took awhile, as things like this often do, to let himself nod in acceptance of this truth, like someone was waiting for his permission to continue on with bringing Harry back. His revelation, finally having it settle in, came with a choked out sob, a laugh that lasted a breath. 

He hardly dared to believe it at all.

But he had to, he made himself face the terrifying, grounding reality of it, in that old, stuffy hospital in Kentucky, underneath it’s scuffed mint green walls and buzzing fluorescent lights. Harry in the ICU bed, nearly lost beneath all the wires and tubes and monitors. The bandage over his eye, wrapped so thickly around his head, Eggsy couldn't see his hair. How it had to be changed every three hours because the blood would start to seep through. 

The nurse let him sleep in the hall, brought him a stiff-backed chair and a glass of tepid water with an impersonal, obliging kind of care, the smile never reaching her eyes when he said thank you.

It took a few days for Merlin to convince him back on the plane, stressing the importance of what they still needed to do, that the world was still reeling with the aftershocks, factions of vigilantes and terrorist groups seeping in to fill the power vacuum, and he was needed. Eggsy could only think that he was needed _here_. Harry couldn't wake up alone, he just couldn't. 

_Harry wouldn't want you sitting here_ , Merlin had said _. He brought you to Kingsman for a reason, Eggsy_.

Harry was transferred home once funds, proper forged documents and a plane were secured. Eggsy went on to do as he was bid because the thought of disappointing Harry once more was enough of a reason to keep on. 

It’s six weeks before Harry opens his eyes and a little longer for Eggsy to feel like he could breathe again, like he wasn't constantly waiting to hear the worst possible outcome, that same arresting and terrifying feeling where his heart lurched in his chest right before he'd leap from a rooftop, a small part convinced he would fall. 

Eggsy didn't love him in that hospital, not then. That would come later, and more gradually, when Harry was back in the land of the living and learning the hardships of surviving a bullet to the head, of coming back from the dead. They went about the recovery blindly and with faltering steps, unkind to themselves when something didn't go as planned or how they had wanted; but Harry, ever the gentleman and exhaustingly ornery, brushed himself off with a slight huff and went about it another way, a better way. Usually his own unorthodox way that made his physical therapist frown constantly. 

Those months, those almost dreamy, glorious days they had spent together, were what kept Eggsy on his own feet. Kept him going through the endless, tiring missions and the vestiges of Valentine’s reach being unearthed, of coming home battered and bruised and wishing, faintly, for the days he could have a cold brown ale down at the pub, no responsibilities to his name, a chance to be that wild, reckless nobody he was before he walked this path, just once more. 

How easy it could be, to do that again. To walk away. He thought of it, more than once. More than he will ever admit. He thinks he can't have been the only one, thinks somewhere in the archives of sordid Kingsman history, someone made good on that. 

But it was on the days he wanted to leave the most, when he believed he just wasn't cut out for this, that he remembered his promise to meet Harry in the gym for another sparring session, or to go down to the shooting range to practice, or even just a passing remark, a far-off intention, on how they might meet for lunch when he’s back home. 

And every time he thought of going back to his flat, collapsing in his bed, shutting off the rest of the world, he thinks about not keeping his promise to Harry, of not keeping his word, and feels a twinge of guilt, an undeniable longing, and he needs to see him. He never regrets it, not when Harry smiles at him in a way that makes Eggsy feel like the world has been swept up from underneath his feet.

Eggsy’s followed him, step for step, looking at him with a different appreciation; curious glances passed between them, the innocuous touches that seemed etched into his skin, comfortable silences and bad jokes met with laughter, a feeling of warmth rising like a tide. It builds, slowly and without much notice, until he wakes up one morning, restless and feeling strange, alien to himself. He took in his room, the sun beginning to peek through half-shut blinds, the open closet door with his clothes spilling out that he was too lazy to organize, the dripping faucet in the bathroom sink he's been meaning to fix. Suddenly, none of it fit or something was missing, lacking. He felt it in his chest, gripping and tangled in all the most tender parts, and he can't figure out what it is. 

Everything was the same as it was the day before and yet it all felt so vastly different.

His phone had vibrated on the bedside table and Eggsy thought it must be the loudest sound he's ever heard, echoing and clattering that absurdly quiet room. He fumbled for it, seeing a text from Harry: _Good morning. I hope Estonia was kinder this time around. Thought we could take a run around the manor tracks after debrief_. _Lunch on the quad again? - Harry_

And when Eggsy smiled to himself, the ache in his chest gave way to warmth, he finally knew. 

\- -

It was late October when Harry asked. Eggsy had walked to work that morning, forgetting his gloves at home; even with his hands in his coat pockets, they were thoroughly chilled by the time he stepped foot in the shop. When Harry had approached him, he was trying to rub the warmth back into them. 

_Eggsy, you haven't answered._

The question had astounded him. He had wanted to laugh, out of nervousness and an innate need for self-preservation but the steady look of anticipation flitting across Harry's otherwise calm expression stopped Eggsy short.

 _Yes—_ his voice cracked and Harry smiled; Eggsy cleared his throat, hands still clasped together, flexing against the numb tingling— _yeah, great. I'd—I’d love to._

 _Excellent._ Harry grinned, rocking back on his heels, delighted. _I'll pick you up Saturday—at seven, perhaps?_

_Okay. Yeah, sounds great._

(And he hardly dared to believe—)

Eggsy slumped against the wall and dragged a hand across his face and let his heart trip up against his ribs as Harry walked away, hands tucked neatly into his trousers, like he hadn't just changed everything, a graceful upheaval of all the things Eggsy felt were in perfect, treacherous balance with each other. 

It was aggravating how Harry managed to make anything look exceedingly attractive, even walking away. 

\- -

Gwen asks about him early on, broaching the subject early, making a point to be direct about it: Galahad. 

Her arms are folded across his knee, regarding him carefully for a moment before she says, _Tell me about Harry._

Eggsy sucked in his bottom lip, looked at the paintings on the wall. _What about him?_

_That must have been quite a shock, losing him. And then for him to come back. I've been told you've been helping him with his recovery._

_Yeah._ Eggsy shrugs, indifferent, his head spinning and heart pounding. _Yeah, he's—he’s the reason I'm here. Figured I owed him as much._

_You two are very close, then._

Eggsy nods. _Yeah. We are._

Gwen tilts her head to the side. _How do you feel about him?_

\- -

Kingsman is tradition. 

Kingsman is tradition in toasts at the table after a new agent is knighted: this time, two for the young recruits and an extra for the one that came back from the dead.

Kingsman is tradition in the first tailored suit and Merlin waves an irritated, dismissive hand at Harry, who doesn't look the least bit bothered that he did this particular bit out of order and gives Eggsy a complacent smirk before ushering him into the dressing room. 

Kingsman is tradition in hanging a portrait of every Arthur. Harry comments dryly that it’s nice to have new traditions as he stares up at the empty spot where Chester King’s portrait was supposed to be, his hands folded behind his back, and Eggsy can only nod.

Kingsman is tradition in taking a few hours out of a slow day to gather in someone’s office, throwing the balcony doors open to the north lawn, and delving into whatever liquor was stashed away in the cupboards.

Eggsy rolls his eyes at most of it, kicks back his feet, arms folded up behind his head, laughing at it’s absurdity and it's novelty. Harry would look at him, faintly unimpressed, mostly bemused, and Eggsy winks before thinking better of it, flushing when Harry’s expression goes bright, acknowledging.

It’s how they end up in Kay’s office, five drinks gone of the finest vodka money can buy before the sun has even set, Eggsy watching Harry intently from across the room and pretending he’s not.

 _He can really hold his liquor, can’t he?_ Eggsy comments to no one in particular but glancing sideways at Roxy seated beside him. 

Roxy sways in her seat, turns with an exaggerated movement to look at Eggsy. Her cheeks are pink, her glasses lopsided. _He’s also old._

 _Rox,_ Eggsy hisses, _don’t say it like that._

_You might want to try being less obvious, you know._

Eggsy ignores her with a deliberate swallow of his drink, looking back at Harry, who’s pouring himself another another, chuckling at something Kay has said, the usually cool and reserved man laughing loudly in return, clapping a large hand on Harry's shoulder. 

_Guess he’s gotta be,_ Eggsy says after a moment. He leans over to her, smiling to himself, feeling giddy and drunk, whispering as if telling a secret, _You know, probably been on so many missions where he had to get pissed and still be able to aim proper._

Roxy hums noncommittally. _Yes, he’s very impressive and all that nonsense._ She finishes her drink, setting it down with a thunk on the table beside her and pokes him in the chest. _It’s nauseating to watch you like this. Just ask him out already, for God’s sake._

Roxy had passed out on the couch, muttering apologies and reminding Eggsy he was an idiot. Eggsy nursed his last drink the rest of the night, watching Harry from across the room, the flush on his cheeks never quite leaving.

Eggsy had woken the next morning to a blaring alarm and a splitting headache, the taste of cigarettes and stale liquor lingering in his mouth. Even as he stumbled about his flat, dreading the seven AM take off for his jet to Norway, he couldn’t help but think with a wry smile that Harry was probably walking around his own house, feeling as good as ever, impeccable as always. 

\- -

Eggsy is nervous enough that his hands were sweating; he keeps rubbing them down the front of his trousers, dreading the thought of stains and completely unable to stop or keep still. 

He has been dressed for well over an hour. He has paced the kitchen for half of that. He has gone back into his room no less than six times to change his tie, called Roxy for a second opinion, to which she answered, _You could probably show up in a rubbish bag and he’d still call you lovely_ , which was both flattering and a bit alarming. 

He spends fifteen minutes seated at his kitchen island, inspecting his shoes under the bright lights, rubbing at nonexistent scuffs with his fingers. He thinks about calling Roxy again, thinks better of it, dials Harry’s number to tell him he had come down with some debilitating and disgusting sickness and that he was terribly sorry but he would just not be able to make it, groaned in despair when he didn't even have the courage for that and promptly tossed his phone onto the sofa and paced the short hall. 

He practices saying hello in a calm, unaffected way for ten minutes before he realizes what he’s doing, sighs at his own hopelessness and tries to remind himself that he’s an actual trained spy, for whatever that’s worth now. 

By the time Harry—late, as Eggsy had expected—buzzes over the intercom, he feels like JB is judging him, tongue lolling out and eyes slightly crossed as he watched from his little bed when Eggsy hurriedly threw on his coat, grabbed his keys and ran down to meet Harry in the lobby. 

And, fuck it all, if Harry didn’t look unbelievably gorgeous—slate grey suit with pinstriped tie, dark brown overcoat left unbuttoned, matching shade of leather gloves—making Eggsy almost stumble stepping out of the lift, damn near melt right there in front of the security personnel with the amused look and the doorman looking back with interest through the plate glass doors. 

Harry had held the taxi door open for him, apologized for his tardiness and complimented Eggsy, saying he looked wonderful. Eggsy touched his tie, looking down at himself, thinking he still didn't pick the right shoes for this suit, the right colour of tie. As they merged into traffic, he already knew it was the most unusual date he had ever been on. 

_I must admit,_ Harry says lightly when they were settled, _I've looked forward to this for quite some time._

_What—you mean, going on a date?_

They are sitting at the back of an Italian place—Harry's choice, though he did ask for Eggsy's input and Eggsy decided that his usual go-to in the estates of a bite at the pub and a walk around the park wasn't exactly fitting for the likes of Harry. The dim lighting makes him strain to look in the half-dark and he's sure he's sinking further into the plush chairs with each uncomfortable fidget or adjustment of his trousers, jacket, tie, and Harry is watching him over his glass of wine and Eggsy's trying to take a drink but he feels his throat tighten each time he tries to swallow. He’s finding it hard to look directly at Harry because he knows he _stares_ and Harry keeps catching him, giving him an appreciative smile, and Eggsy feels like he’s going to burn up, like flame to paper, every time he does.

 _I find you particularly distracting,_ Harry says, swirling his glass. 

_Oh._ And Eggsy can finally smile back, really unable to stop himself at the swell of warmth that blooms in him at hearing that. 

Oh god, he's done for.

And when Harry has taken him home at the end of a night of good food and drink, hours of talking and never running out of things to say, the night slipping from them with ease and companionable conversation, they stand underneath the street lamp outside of Eggsy’s apartment block, the taxi idling beside them, they can’t seem to decide who will leave first.

 _Thanks, Harry._ Eggsy shuffles, hands tucked in his overcoat. _This was… it was nice._

_I’m glad to hear._

Eggsy feels too young, like a kid way out of his depth, like everyone’s looking right at him and can see through his disguise. He feels like he doesn’t belong here and it comes in quiet, it stays for the span of a heartbeat, and it rushes out of him in a desperate pull, a reckless escape, leaving him feeling strangely hollow.

He’s turning back towards his home, shrugging off some nagging weight, when Harry’s hand closes around his wrist and brings him back. Eggsy almost loses his balance—actually he does, but Harry catches him and they spend a moment, mere inches apart, waiting on the edge of whatever was coming next. 

Eggsy feels it all at once, all together as one sweeping sensation to steal the breath from him, and individually, every single part of it in startling clarity, melding together and tugging apart within each passing second: the grip of Harry’s long fingers around his wrist, the warmth of his breath across his cheek, the length of Harry’s leg pressed up against his, his other hand trailing over his arm, hardly touching him but it feels like the heat of it would brand him, mark him, even through the supple leather of his gloves. 

Harry leans forward, hesitates with a quiet gasp and a chance for Eggsy to pull away—and kisses him. Eggsy can taste the wine from dinner, pungent and bittersweet, on his lips. 

When Harry pulls back, Eggsy inhales shakily, finds it impossible to move.

 _I apologize, Eggsy._ Harry doesn't move any further away but there is a concerned look in his eyes. _I should have asked first._

 _No, it’s… yeah, it’s alright._ Eggsy blinks a bit deliriously up at him, unable to stop the grin from forming. _D’you, I dunno, wanna come in or something?_

Harry smiles down at him and yeah, _yeah_ , he's fucking done for. 

_Yes, Eggsy._

\- -

Roxy’s had just got back from Czechia and she looks like she would string anyone up who dares talk to her. But she's found her usual spot on the chair in Eggsy’s office opposite from his desk, where she leans back and sighs happily, cradling a mug of tea, knees pulled up to her chin. 

He must have that telling look on his face, some kind of besotted, dumb air about him with the far-off gaze, because she looks both pleased and rather smug, peering at him over her tea.

_So, how’d it go?_

_He’s fucking brilliant, Rox,_ Eggsy says quickly; he hadn't been able to concentrate on his paperwork all day, still reveling in the feel of waking up, naked and sticky with sweat and tangled in sheets and _Harry_ ; Harry's eager, wearing kiss that morning before they departed—Harry back home to change before he came to the shop, Eggsy off for a morning briefing with Arthur about an upcoming mission _. Just—he’s amazing._

_It was the rubbish bag, wasn't it?_

_And he does this thing with his hands, it’s a fucking revelation—_

And he laughs when Roxy protests loudly, trying to cover both her ears without spilling her tea.

\- -

Eggsy's delirious, flying high and grinning, with how easy it is was to be with Harry. How it all seemed to fall and click into place, like this was always how it was meant to be and the world was just waiting for them to finally find each other for it all to unfold and begin. How Harry felt more like home than anything else had in a long time. 

But he was always watching his step, steadying his tone, thinking about the best way to say something or if he looked well enough to be standing beside Harry, in those first few weeks. It's not like he did it consciously. But just by being in Harry's vicinity—not just as another man of dubious stature given the opportunity to stand alongside gentlemen and live a copy of their lives, but as someone _with_ Harry—he would roll back his shoulders, straighten his posture and found himself putting on the clipped and prim tongue of the Queen’s English without really making an effort to. 

He knew Harry wouldn't want him to. Would tell him that a man is not defined by his class or his choice of words. He knew all this, had heard it a thousand times. He believed it, in many ways; that he earned his spot at the Kingsman table as much as anyone else, despite where he'd grown up, who he had been before. But with Harry—it was different, he thought. That Harry deserved his best and his best was the suit, the affected accent, humility in the face of it all. 

And because Harry is who he is, always quietly observant, he noticed all this and smiled at Eggsy with such fondness that Eggsy couldn't help but smile back, heart lifting. Sitting in Harry’s bedroom one morning, he took Eggsy's hands in his, kissed the backs of his fingers gently. 

_You needn't try so hard, darling._

(His heart always tripped at this, _darling,_ like he was falling, and he never wanted it to end.)

The sheets wrinkled where they sat, soft ridges building around them. _Dunno what you're talking about._

 _You know precisely what I'm talking about,_ Harry said fondly. 

And Harry had kissed him again and again and again, until Eggsy was leaning forward, shifted into his lap, arms wrapped around his shoulders, sighing happy little sighs into Harry's mouth, an entirety of affection, of great shy thing in him spilling over. And Eggsy knew, just knew by the way Harry held him, with such considerable thought and enough benevolent care, that Harry would have him, just like this. 

And Eggsy would have him, just the same. 

\- -

It's late summer; Harry still in physical therapy, learning how to balance heavy and light weights, Eggsy taking reports down to the gym so he can watch and work, keeping an eye on Harry, covered in sweat and arms trembling as he lifts kettlebells up and down in timed intervals. 

Gwen has the balcony doors open but it's cooler outside today, the breeze unforgiving, and he doesn't want to have a smoke. He's trying to quit. He's starting to hate the taste of it. 

_The day at the bunker… do you want to go over that day? How you felt? How you feel about it now?_

_I got the job done. Proud of it. Saved the world. Kissed a princess and all. Not many people can save they've done it._

_No, I guess they can't._

Eggsy tilts his head askance, looks at her. _Why don't you write nothing down during these things?_ He gestures at her empty lap. _Ain't that what you supposed to do?_

_I do that after our sessions. Movies aren't accurate in that regard._

Eggsy purses his lips, considering. _What do you write about me, then?_

_Thoughts. Observations I have about you._

Eggsy sits up, leans forward. _What’d you observe about me?_

Gwen looks taken back by this, like she had never expected him to ask, before she shakes her head and sighs good humouredly and curls her mouth down as she reads over her notes. 

_You deflect. You seem to avoid talking about anything in straightforward terms. Your childhood, the loss of your mentor, the things you've done and seen while here at Kingsman… which have a reliable history of being an incredible weight to bear._ The wind picks up, sending the curtains around the open balcony doors billowing, snapping in the gust that rushes through; she looks over and Eggsy continues to watch her. _I would like a few more sessions with you before I give a concrete answer._

 _Right,_ Eggsy says stiffly. _Never really had a reason to talk about all the shit that went on in my life. Old habits die hard, innit?_

Gwen watches him for a minute, her eyes hard and unwavering, like she still has more of him to uncover, confused by him at every turn. 

_That day in the bunker…_

Eggsy rolls his head back in the chair. _Can we talk about something else?_

\- -

Harry had a smile, a genuine kind of smile that would looks forced, false on others. The kind of smile that makes you feel like you're the only person in the room when it's all for you. The kind of smile that makes anything better, wide and dimpled and so endearingly sincere. If the comfort of something, of a word or a feeling, could be condensed into something physical, Eggsy's sure, for him, it would be Harry's smile. 

The smile comes in mornings, when Eggsy wakes last and Harry, never concerned about the consequences of taking his time, is still laying beside him, one hand resting fondly along Eggsy’s jaw, stroking his thumb across Eggsy's cheekbone. It comes at the end of a long mission, days or weeks away, sometimes, when they were truly unlucky, and Eggsy is never too proud, never too tired to let out a whooping holler of relief and kiss Harry at the hangar doors in ardent welcome.

It comes less often, but just as needed, when reminders of close calls in the form of his bruised skin, cracked ribs and bloodied hands that need to be forgotten, when it's all becomes too much and Eggsy all but trembles with the burden of it; Harry holding him close as they stand in the low kitchen light when Eggsy is the one who cannot sleep, Harry's lips pressed to his forehead, his one assurance in the that way Harry's hands thread through his hair, whispering _you'll be alright, darling, you'll be alright._

It comes in the rare days when they are both at home, Eggsy not giving into much needed sleep or recovering or passing through for a change of clothes: a minor comfort of familiarity on their way back to the estate, Eggsy to another mission and Harry to more appointments and training and paperwork, and they are granted some spare moments together before duty calls once more. Eggsy lounging on the sofa in the sitting room watching something mindless and mundane on the telly, slunk right down in the cushions, lazy and warm under a blanket, and his feet resting on Harry’s lap, where he reads a book, or does one of his thousands of crossword puzzles ( _don't see the point, you do them in like five minutes flat, what with that big head of yours, it's pretty much cheating—well, don't you know how to flatter—it’s a compliment!)_ , held open by one hand and his other finger pressed to his lips. And Eggsy will close his eyes for a minute so all he will hear is the turning of paper and the soft drone of voices on the screen and all he will feel is floating, suspended for that minute where all is right. 

When he opens his eyes, there's a swell in the room, like heat waves rising over him, and the bright winter sun streaming in through the window that surrounds Harry, the soft curls of his hair painted up in rays, his face hidden in part shadow. Sun on his shoulders, tracing shadows on his arms, shirt sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows. Eggsy blinks at Harry, as if he isn't real, a trick of light. And for a moment, he's worried that's all he is. 

When he's blinked enough and it all comes back into focus, Harry is looking back at him with that smile that seems to outshine the light around him. 

It comes at the strangest of moments, the most simple and unassuming of them, when Eggsy least expects it, when he has done nothing of worth and does not need to be saved. 

Where there was usually elegance and confined chaos and an almost gleeful pride in it's reign, Harry softened around Eggsy. Took down that armour for him and give him a smile that was eternal and adoring and kind. 

That smile. And it was all for Eggsy. 

\- -

What follows is months of dinners out and movie nights spent in, at his place or Harry's. Walks on the warmer nights around Stanhope Gardens before the weather turns unbearably cold, down to Camden Market a few times before the snow comes. Lunch dates in the office, nights at the theatre and opera and museum tours that Eggsy finds both tempting and wearisome in turns. Eggsy says when the weather turns nice, he wants to take Harry down to Brighton for a weekend, buying tickets to football games at Wembley—and Harry never once hiding his competitive streak when it came to placing bets on England. Promises of skating at Somerset House, plans of a winter holiday somewhere warmer and less dreary, if they could find the time to get away; idle, extravagant talk on days when the cold was bitter and unforgiving, stuck inside, huddled together in bed, Harry's joints aching from the cold, Eggsy rubbing his sore knuckles, up his wrists, arms and shoulders. 

Christmas comes around, twinkling lights from every corner and snowflakes sticking to the windows sills and doorways. Missions in Marrakesh, Stockholm, Hanoi. In between, toasts of brandy and glasses of port in the foyer of the mansion, one of the tech staff having wrapped plastic silver tinsel around the banisters, poinsettias on the tables, Kay with a box of cigars, one hanging from the side of his mouth, talking and laughing around it. Dinner with his mum and Daisy, stilted conversation and awkward looks exchanged over turkey and mashed potatoes, even though Eggsy had asked them both—just for now, just for this night—leave it be, to be kind to each other; and they had, for the most part. And Eggsy has found himself smiling, relieved and elated, his fingers brushing against Harry's leg under the dinner table. 

Right before New Years, a toast of champagne in Harry's office after everyone else has left for the night, an official release form with Freya’s beat signature and Arthur’s seal, officially pronouncing him well enough to begin field re-entry.

Harry holds the thin paper up above his head, squinting at it. _I should have this framed._ He turns in his chair, sizing it up against an empty space in his wall. _Seems appropriate, doesn't it?_

 _Just wait till we get out there together, taking missions_ , Eggsy muses, shoes toed off long ago, feet propped in Harry's lap. He wiggles down in his seat, eyes heavy-lidded, glass rim pressed to his bottom lip. _How I always thought it'd be._

 _Joint missions are not very common,_ Harry states. 

Eggsy frowns. _Yeah, know that. Don't mean they don't ever happen._ He pokes his toe into Harry's side. _But you and me, huh? We’ll be good together… you and me._

Harry sets the form back down slowly, adjusts it amongst the neat piles of papers, the row of pens lined at the top of the writing pad, the Newton’s cradle in the corner. He looks distant, a shiver of something unyielding and blank before he settles back in his chair, taking a long drink of his champagne. _Yes,_ he says, _we will be quite the team._

\- -

By late January, they see each other less. Eggsy, busy with mission prep and bomb detonation training and pursuing a paramilitary group based in Ireland, spreading out to Scotland and into Wales; Harry gone most of the day with his retraining course, apologizing to Eggsy for yet another unplanned meeting with Arthur or trip down to medical or a training session that went over. It wasn’t often that they had days just to themselves, like it was before; even less that they took advantage of it.

Sunny weekday despite the frigid air and howling winds outside, late into the afternoon, and Eggsy’s practically drowning in forms and reports he has procrastinated for weeks, his vision swimming with the repetitive small print and the mindless questions on details he has half-forgotten from his last assignment, when Harry shows up at his office, a woven blanket folded over his arm and a wicker basket in his hand. 

_You look like you could use a break,_ Harry says, swinging the basket slightly, the faint sound of clinking glass filling the room. 

Eggsy quirks an eyebrow, pen poised over a paper he was signed, eyes swimming and lights popping from the glare of his tablet screen. He looks pointedly outside, to where was snow whipping across the window. _Not really picnic weather_.

 _No,_ Harry agrees slowly, stepping inside the room. _I do know a place, though. Almost as good as a summer day._

Eggsy leans back in his chair, tossing his pen down with a smirk. _Not trying to get me in trouble, are you?_

 _Now, why would you say that?_ Harry asks, mock-offended, hand over his heart. 

_No reason._ Eggsy nods towards the papers scattered across his desk. _Merlin’ll have my neck if I don't get these done. Told him I'd have them in a week ago._

Harry shrugs, perfectly aloof. _I'll write you a tardy slip._

Eggsy beams fully at Harry and Harry smiles back, wonderfully amused, a look so uncomplicated that Eggsy can't imagine Harry any other way but content and happy.

Harry leads through the mansion, a winding series of halls and small corridors, into a room empty save for a chaise along an empty wall with a massive gilt-framed painting of an angry black-green ocean and a ship with torn sails rolling in the frothing waves, and towards the double doors at the end, turning the handle and pushing the doors inward, Eggsy following closely behind as Harry steps inside. 

Far above them, a domed ceiling of dark stained wood beams and glass in an intricate designs lamps suspended from trusses and cornices. Ahead, a narrow pool of water extending from the doors all the way down the atrium, waterlilies of pink and white floating on top. A soft daylight filters in through the ceiling, patterns of light and shadow across the floor. 

_Commissioned back when the original lord of the manor first had the house built,_ Harry starts to explain, catching sight of Eggsy’s awe, his voice echoing, footsteps loud against the gleaming floor. _French glass for the ceiling, Italian marble flooring, limestone walls and pillars, imported exotic plants. There was even parrots, birds of paradise, and macaws here at one point, if the mansion records are to be believed._

 _This is nuts,_ Eggsy says, staring at the palm trees, weeping ficus and black olive trees in raised beds lined with gold edged pearl mosaic tiles set in scalloped patterns, ivy trailing down from wall sconces, spilling out over the floors. _Does no one ever come here?_

 _We have someone tend to the plants, keep it clean… but no._ Harry looks back at him, a reserved pleasant look about him. _No one really knows about this place. Or if they do, they don't come here. Back in my early days at Kingsman, I would spend a lot of time here._

_Doing what?_

Harry doesn't answer at first, staring up at the ceiling. After awhile, he shrugs. _Thinking, walking around. Hiding from Chester_ , he adds with a smirk. 

Eggsy stands back a few feet, watches as Harry lays out the blanket on a large curvy patch of trimmed grass beside a massive planter of succulents and jade plants, tugging at the corners until it was laying perfectly flat. He’s a bit distracted after Harry shrugs out of his jacket and lays it off to the side, so when he leans forward on his knees to pull the basket towards him, the dress shirt stretches across his arms, the effortless grace with which he holds his hand over his tie to smooth it back down. All these simple, ordinary gestures with which Harry carried himself, the practised ease and prideful repose, never fails to impress Eggsy, catch him off guard. 

Eggsy thinks Harry looks like some kind of renaissance painting he had seen at an art gallery, kneeling in the middle of a ray of light divided by the rafters, making him golden and hazy-soft at the edges. He looks stunning and it takes Eggsy's breath away.

 _Trying to impress me, Harry?_

Harry looks up at him, his expression fond and honest. _I thought I've already done that._

They eat in companionable silence, content and relaxed, occasionally bumping shoulders when Harry reaches forward for another carrot or Eggsy takes a drink out of the bottled lager Harry had packed. A nearly cloudless sky stretches out above the glass, the sky that bright kind of luminous blue that makes the world seem wider than it truly is, an almost dreamlike quality to it. 

He hasn't quite got used to how Harry treats him, how he dotes upon him: he was more used to little acts of kindness being hurled back at him as a consequence or punishment, gifts given only for them to be taken back when he had talked back, misbehaved, pissed off Dean in some way. He can't outgrow the guilt instilled in him from the years of Dean reminding him what a burden he was, wasting his money, _you ain't my fucking kid_ ; and by the time they realized how deeply Dean had dug his claws into their lives, it was impossible to untangle themselves from him.

Eggsy still smiles at Harry, says thank you, kisses him in gratitude—but sometimes, he wonders when it won't come as easily, when his own head will betray him, make him see fault and mistrust where there was none. He doesn't ever want to see Harry that way, doesn't ever want his own insecurities to 

_Could get used to this,_ Eggsy says with a sigh, settling with back against Harry's chest, sitting between Harry's legs. _You, bringing me lunch. Regular old domestic, you are._

 _You’ve yet to see me in a dress,_ Harry murmurs, mouth against the shell of Eggsy’s ear. 

Eggsy laughs, squirming. _If anyone could pull it off, it’d be you. You’d be gorgeous, as usual._

Harry takes him by the chin, Eggsy shifting to turn around, and Harry kisses him, breathlessly and tender. Eggsy lets him, sinking into it, the warmth of the sun and the alcohol making him giddy.

Harry's packing away the plates, the last few remnants of their lunch, brushing crumbs off the blanket onto the grass. 

_What, sending back to work already?_ Eggsy asks, sitting up, disappointed. 

Harry reaches into the picnic basket and pulls out a book, leaning back against the tree as he flips to his bookmarked page. _We enjoy the day and each other._

The afternoon passes by them, unnoticed and lazy, the only indication of time passing the slow descent of the sun across the sky, from blue to dusky pink to a dark violet. Eggsy thinks passively of all the paperwork he’s avoiding, the eventual fallout he will face when Merlin tracks him down to tear into him again about being late with them again; he thinks more of all the thousands of other things he could be doing with his time, like restocking his kit or taking Bedivere up on his offer on sparring lessons or doing maintenance on his guns; he has a mission in Mozambique he needs to talk to Lamorak about, having had spent time there while in the army, and he has to sift through countless hours of surveillance from his last recon in Bengaluru that he needs to pass onto analysis by weeks end. He realizes, in a vague and kind of contrite way, that he hasn’t put in his hours at the shop front for the month: he knows how abysmal his stitching is though Andrew was impressed his eye for detail, his impeccable memory at the shops meticulous organizing and categorizing. 

And he thinks, really, he should be doing something, the guilt that he has to continually be doing _something_ because he still feels as if he needs to be earning his place, amongst the illustrious men who he has been made an equal.

Sometimes, he looks at Harry and feels completely unequal, unmatched; not necessarily unworthy but sometimes the disparity between him and everyone else so apparent it's like there is a partition between them. Other times, he looks at Harry and knows there's no one else for him, that he can't imagine being with anyone else, still in awe at how happy Harry made him, just how unbelievably _good_ it all was. 

Eggsy had shifted so he was laid out on his back, his head in Harry's lap, drifting in and out of a dozy sleep as Harry read, running his hand lazily through his hair. When Eggsy fully wakes, sits up, a bit self conscious, it's getting late in the day. He rubs at his cheeks with the sides of his hands, stifling a yawn. Harry gives him a gentle smile when Eggsy catches his eye. 

_I think it's about time I sent you back to your work,_ Harry says, kissing Eggsy’s forehead, his hand still tangled in Eggsy’s hair. 

_You don't, really,_ Eggsy grumbles, eyes half-closed, reaching out for Harry's face and tilting his head back to kiss Harry on the lips. _No one even knows we're gone._

 _I'd much rather stay here with you all day_ , Harry murmurs against Eggsy’s lips; Eggsy can feel him smiling. _But I'm afraid Merlin knows and sees all and he won't be happy I have taken his agent from his duties._

Eggsy helps Harry fold up the blanket, waits while Harry puts on his coat, the bliss of the afternoon starting to fade, knowing he would have to step back out into the inescapable weight of all the things that were constantly asked of him. 

They walk back through estate at a leisurely pace, holding hands, unhurried to get back to real life . They talk idly of mundane things, of what they would do on their next day off, consideration given to a night-in or maybe another trip to Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, suggested by Harry and Eggsy grinning enthusiastically, secretly knowing from the start that Harry had enjoyed the kitschy oddities, taking a particular interest in the shrunken heads, musing how he has never thought to visit the place before Eggsy had mentioned it. Eggsy had thought that they wouldn't have enough it common, assuming they were so opposite of each other in interests and hobbies, that they would quickly run out of things to do with each other or to talk about, and with nothing to hold on to, the beginnings of something great would shrivel and waste away, slip from between his clasped hands. But months later, it seemed it never would, and Eggsy would be continuously surprised by the things Harry would be willing to try, surprised by himself over the things Harry showed him he ended up enjoying. 

Just as the reach the end of a corridor, Eggsy notices a steel door with an engraved brass placard: _Natatorium_. 

He has the clear memory of being submersed into icy water in nothing but a t-shirt and running shorts and made to tread water until he feared his body would give out, teeth chattering and clacking about in his head, his heart thudding against his ribs from the strain to keep himself afloat that every breath was dragged out of him, a stretching, pulling pain. He remembers Roxy’s blue lips and her fingers rippling under water, Charlie's determined look and the blood on his bottom lip from biting it so hard, Digby’s low groaning the only sound besides Merlin’s pacing the tiles and the lapping water. 

Eggsy stops, points, Harry's gaze following its direction. _There’s a door to the pool up here?_ He didn't think they were that far east in the mansion, but he hasn't been fully paying attention. 

_Yes, it seems so._ Harry makes a face, eyebrows raised. _It's been years since I've been in it myself._

 _What, you didn't sign up for the weekly water aerobics?_ Eggsy jokes as he walks towards the door.

_Cheeky brat._

_Come on, let's check it out._ Eggsy punches in his access code with his thumb and grins when the door buzzes and eases open, revealing a lit concrete stairwell leading down a few floors. _Pretend it’s like a short cut._

Harry seems to hesitate, shifting the weight of the blanket from one arm to the other. _I don't think—_

_Oh, come on. It's not like we're breaking any rules._

_I didn't say that_ , Harry says, defensively, shoulders straightening.

 _Harry Hart._ Eggsy leans against the door frame, using his foot to keep the door propped open. _Do you not know how to swim?_

Harry looks exasperated, rolls his eyes. _Of course I bloody do. Don't be ridiculous._

Eggsy kicks the door open a bit more, wiggling his eyebrows, motioning with a finger for Harry to follow. He thinks he hears a huff of indignation as he steps all the way inside but Harry is right behind him, the heavy door falling shut behind him. Eggsy takes the steps two at a time, even leaps over the railing to drop to the last two steps, relishing the distraught noise Harry makes above him. 

Eggsy immediately makes for the pool as soon as he opens the door, stripping out of his suit jacket, loosening his tie and shuffling out his trousers, folding his clothes neatly when Harry gives him a warning tut when he makes to dump them on a bench. He looks back when he's fully naked to see Harry standing stock still, an obvious flush, even in the blue fluorescent glow of the sidelights, rising on his cheeks. Eggsy grins and winks; then, he jumps into the water, tensing as soon as he hits the water, breath caught in his throat, remembering how could it had been that first night in Kingsman when the room flooded—he's under for a minute, watching the rush of bubbles around him before he frantically pushes to the surface, not enough breath in his lungs and ears starting to ring. 

_Ain’t you coming in?_ he calls, shaking the water from his hair. 

Harry shakes his head, free hand tucked into his trouser pocket. _I'm fine here._

 _Aw, don't be like that._ Eggsy pushes his arms around him, keeping him afloat, watching the water swell over his arms, fingers distorted underneath. _Come on, it's actually nice. Last time I was in here, it weren't even heated._

Harry gives him a brief, wondrous smile before he breathes out steadily, shifts his weight and looks back towards the door they came through. 

_Harry, seriously!_ Eggsy grins, laughing. He swims up to the ledge, folding his arms on the tile, pulling himself up to his arms. The water drips down his face, into his eyes. _Live a little, yeah? You didn't come back from the dead just to stand by the benches when you could be skinny dipping in a fancy pool with your frankly gorgeous boyfriend._

Harry turns to look at him, blinks slowly. _Sorry, who?_

 _Ha ha. Can't stop laughing._ Eggsy kicks back into the water, falling in with a shallow splash, letting himself sink down until his chin is under water _. Come in. I ain't waiting for you all night._

Harry sighs, smiles. He looks back to the door once more, the lines of his body gone tense, angular, as he considers. Then he seems to decide, shrugging to himself, and it's like he transforms, shifts, as he sets down the blanket and basket, bends over to untie his shoes: the rigidity of his pose, the practiced formality with which he composes himself daily sheds in the absence of pretense and what emerges is a man Eggsy knows only exists in the most content of moments. 

Eggsy treads water and watches, delighted and quietly enthralled, as Harry methodically strips down, taking his time to fold his clothes and set them down on the bench beside Eggsy's admittedly haphazard pile. He even takes his time on the cufflinks, unclipping them in precise flicks of fingertips, tucking them into his trouser pockets with care. 

_Y’know, still don't believe that you know how to swim._ Eggsy smirks up at him and blows bubbles. _You're stalling—just get in!_

Harry huffs in disagreement. He's crouching down, leaning forward a bit like he's going to sit and slide into the pool, a hand out either to balance or test the water. Eggsy isn't far from him, an arm’s length away, a little more, if that. With no hesitation, and not much forethought despite the incredible daring that takes over and the surge of excitement that spurs him forward, Eggsy pushes forward in the water, reaches up, grips Harry’s forearm and yanks him into the pool.

Harry comes up a moment later spluttering, his hair matted in his eyes, hands scrubbing furiously at his face; Eggsy's peals of laughter echo off the tile walls and bounce back to them. 

Harry’s coughing with his hand over his mouth, a humorous glint to his agitated glare; with as much warning as Eggsy has given him, he kicks out forcefully, sending a wave of water at Eggsy. He uses the brief moment of distraction when Eggsy throws his hands up to cover his face to grab hold of Eggsy's shoulders, dunking him under the water, pressing his full weight down. 

He's still laughing when he comes back up, coughing up water, his cheeks hurting from the strain, hands still up defensively. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ , Eggsy cries out _—I couldn't help it, you were just right there._ Eggsy rubs the chlorine sting from his eyes, drags his fingers through his hair, pushing it back off his face.

 _You're awful,_ Harry says, a bright glimmer in his eyes. _You have a very childish sense of humour._

_Yeah, but you love it._

And Eggsy knows it’s true by the way Harry smiles back at him, even with his hair plastered to his head, water dripping into his eyes. 

Harry cocks his head to the side. _I wouldn't go that far. I'm amenable to it, in small doses._

 _That all you amenable to?_ Eggsy asks, drawing out the word. He pushes back with his feet until his shoulders hit the cool tile, water rising up around him. 

_No,_ Harry admits.

 _Well, go on._ Eggsy rests his elbows on the pool edge, gesturing at Harry, giving him a challenging grin. _Don't be shy._

Harry takes a moment to rake his gaze up and down Eggsy before answering in a quiet, even tone that anywhere else would have been insignificant and even ordinary—but here, between the vast emptiness and tile and water, is amplified and seems all that more intimate. _I am amenable to your…_ Harry hums in consideration , swims forward a ways, _gorgeous mouth. And all the things you can do with it._

Eggsy can feel the sudden tingle of skin and nerves down his neck, his cheeks turning hot, as Harry makes his way towards him with ease, his gaze not breaking with Eggsy's as he swims towards him, closing the distance quickly between them. 

In the pale blue light, there's something fleeting, otherworldly about Harry that makes Eggsy pause: the grey in his hair illumined, the old scars across his chest a pearly-pink sheen, his arms cast in a ghostly shadow, his skin made silver and dark blue. Eggsy feels almost as if Harry is unreachable, like he is larger than anything else he has ever faced, like he's high above Eggsy in some heavenly, unattainable way that makes Eggsy want to reach out and take him, claim him, even with Harry right in front of him, his hands gripped onto the ledge on either side of Eggsy.

 _I can be pretty witty._ And Eggsy knows it sounds lame but Harry's already in his space and his brain always goes a bit wonky when Harry's close enough that Eggsy can smell his cologne, see his pulse jump in his neck. 

_Hmm, witty_ , Harry answers with a scoff. _Not what I was alluding to. But fine._

There's something intense, and dark and rousing, in Harry's voice that is unmistakeable. Eggsy swallows, the flutter in his stomach, coiling through him, wicked and intoxicating. _What else?_

 _This—_ Harry raises a hand, so tantalizing and slow that Eggsy can track the steady movements in heartbeats; comes to rest two fingers in the dip of Eggsy's collarbone— _is just as lovely. Your beautiful, soft skin, the way it tastes when I kiss you just… here…_

And Harry leans forward, ducks his head, to kiss just above his fingers, sending a spark through Eggsy, his eyes falling closed at the sensation of Harry licking at his skin, tracing the bone to his neck with open-mouthed kisses. 

Eggsy laughs, a bit breathlessly, clenching his fists. _Alright there, Hannibal Lecter. Wanna take it easy there?_

Harry nips him in reprimand, making Eggsy gasp slightly. _You did ask,_ he murmurs against Eggsy’s neck. 

_What else?_ Eggsy wiggles back until Harry's hand slips from its place, suddenly overwhelmed with the situation—a glorious, heated thrill rushing through him, his hands coming to roam over the expanse of Harry's back, dipping down to his hips so he can lever himself up, push himself hard against the planes of Harry's body. 

_Your arse._

Eggsy barks out a surprised laugh, moving to clap a hand over his mouth, Harry catching it before he can. 

_What?_ Harry asks, slightly perturbed, finally looking up. 

_Seriously?_

_Of course_ , Harry answers plainly, as if this was obvious. _Or do you not think so?_

 _Dunno, maybe._ Eggsy shrugs, nonchalant, flexing his hand caught in Harry's grip, giving an experimental tug and smirking when Harry's grip tightens. _I'd like to hear it._

_Narcissistic little brat._

_Learn from the best, Harry._ He jerks his chin up. _Go on—you were saying something about my lovely little arse?_

 _Bossy today, aren't we? You are horribly spoiled._ While he speaks, Harry’s hands trail along Eggsy's chest, over the sharp rise of his shoulders, down his arms. He speaks steadily, no undue inflection, no hurry. He says each word with purpose and Eggsy's hanging onto each one with a desperation and need he didn't knew he had. _But—I like your kindness, your capability, your tenacity. I like your incredibly loud laugh and your rambling stories and your infectious happiness. I like your horrid table manners and your snoring and the annoying games you play on your phone, the ones with insistent pinging noises._

Stupefied and awed, Eggsy manages to croak out, _I don't snore._

_You do, darling._

Eggsy can't think of another response, his brain failing him on every front except for staring stupidly at Harry in wonder. 

Harry's fingers, spread out across his skin, dance along the valleys of his ribs; Harry is watching his own ministrations, head tilted to the side, gaze incredibly fond, tenderhearted, that Eggsy finds himself clenching his teeth from saying anything that could possibly ruin this. The entire moment feels delicate, incredibly fragile and ready to come apart, a dumbfounded, staggering swell of adoration sweeping him up; he thinks he could lose it if he's not careful. 

_I like how you look in my clothes when you forget to bring your own. I like how you always put too much honey in your tea, no matter what kind it is. I like when I get to wake up to you beside me in the morning._ Harry lets go of Eggsy's wrist, cups his hand on Eggsy’s face, looking at him closely. _I don't think I will ever tire of it._

 _What else?_ Eggsy asks softly, dazed and punch-drunk, not wanting Harry to stop. 

Something flashes over Harry’s warm eyes before his fingers grip onto Eggsy's waist and grins widely, _I like the way you look so… otherworldly right before you come. Your eyelashes… they flutter, actually, in such a lovely way. It's very entrancing._

And it's like the most beautiful kind of whiplash, the suddenness of the confession lashing through him with ferocity, rushing straight to his already hardening cock, making it jump in anticipation. On their own accord, his hips jerk forward and Harry gives a soft groan, a reassuring squeeze against Eggsy's waist, and smiles unrepentantly at him. 

_Jesus Christ, Harry,_ Eggsy breathes, his shaking hands grasping at Harry blindly. 

_I like… this._ Harry reaches around to take up Eggsy’s hand, flattens his palm against Eggsy's, lining up their fingers and folding them together. _Being with you._

And he doesn't know what it is: the removed privacy of the pool, the unabashed way with which Harry regarded him, the almost dream-like quality of the entire day laid out before him like an offering. But it emboldens him, solidifies a thought he had harboured for what seems months, maybe longer, gave it ground and gave him certainty even as his pulse races to a roar in his head. 

In a moment of daring, Eggsy says it, quietly and on a trembling breath, _I love you._

Harry looks up from where he was watching at their joined hands. His face is unreadable, a steady calm hiding whatever could be underneath. 

And it's already out there, it's already been said, and in the faint afterglow of such a confession, Eggsy already feels the certainty that had gripped him slipping away and unbridled doubt and unease begins to seep back in. But there's nothing for it now, he thinks—he cannot take it back. 

He would never take it back. 

_Harry,_ Eggsy says tremulously, _I love you. I really... love you, I mean it. I'm—in love with you._ His words quicken, tumbling out of his mouth, his heart beating frantically in his chest, so loud he's sure Harry can hear it because it's all he can hear; there's no other sound but this, the staccato rhythm of it that seems to fill the air around them. 

And Harry keeps staring at him, dark eyes shining in the blue light, and even though Eggsy feels like something is clawing up at him from the inside, frightened and distraught, he can't make himself look away. 

_Harry, you gotta say something before I lose my mind—_

_I like being loved by you, Eggsy._ Harry sounds different this time, softer; loving, so sincere and hopeful that Eggsy slumps in his relief, head falling forward to Harry's shoulder. _I like it very much._

 _Fuck,_ Eggsy says, suppressing a laugh. It's not how he ever expected, as if he had given it any thought, as if this was something one planned in any regard—but the ecstatic relief is tripping up in his chest, sending tremors through him. 

Harry kisses the side of Eggsy's face, arms wrapping around Eggsy's shoulders, hands cradling the back of Eggsy's head, whispering, _And I love you. I love you, Eggsy, I do, so much._

Harry kisses him, over and over, patient to just hold hold him as Eggsy falls into his embrace, letting himself be loved. 

Later, at home, when Harry has him up against the bedroom wall, his wrists held together above his head by Harry's hand, Eggsy says it over and over again, what feels like hundreds open-mouthed confessions against Harry's skin, _I love you, I love you, I love you._

\- -

He wonders later, if he had known, would he have said no to Harry, never let him back into his life, never allowed him to stay when he could have turned away?

No, he wouldn't have. Not for anything.

But if he had known, he thinks he might have been prepared, able to withstand what came next. He knows it's a lie but it's a comforting one, at least.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes a long time for him to accept that Harry loves him without exception. A little bit longer for him to realize it's also without expectation. The hardest part is there was never any in spite of. He waited for it, set his jaw and braced for it like a fight, hands already clenched behind his back, always walking into every new unknown scenario ready for the worst. 

But it never came and Harry never mentioned how Eggsy’s shoulders tensed and then slumped when his _we need to talk_ was followed by _I think we should cancel the paper delivery._

Harry loves Eggsy with _because_. Loves all of him, the rough unpolished edges and the secret hidden corners and the things he’s not yet ready to share, and never asks in return—but, oh, does Eggsy give. 

Eggsy never tells Harry any of this, this worry he has that one day Harry will wake up and change his mind, to lay bare the things even Eggsy doesn't want to face. Never divulges the nights he sits awake and stares at him in wonder and thinks when this, too, was going to be taken away from him. Tries to figure out how long until he fucks it up, which was usually the way it went with something like this, something that was far too easy and far too good to happen to the likes of him, and Harry clues in that maybe a young working class man from the estates with a penchant for cheap beer and what he has been told was pure reckless impulsivity wasn't the best person to spend your the rest of your life with. 

Wondering when it did become in spite of. With expectation. With exception. 

And in the mornings, bleary and practically slumped over his bowl of cereal, waiting impatiently for Harry’s ancient percolator to finish popping and hissing and give him his much needed coffee, Harry would come down the stairs (hair tamed and parted, pressed shirt buttoned and tie in his favoured Windsor knot) and stand in the doorway to the dining room, watching him with such apparent fondness and adoration that Eggsy has to stop and look at him. 

He's seen that face before. 

Sometimes, the memory is a bitter, aching one, his dad dancing his mum back and forth across the kitchen. It comes without warning and always, always leaves him wretched, a tightness in his chest. 

But it's those mornings, with the familiar look slowly becoming less of a memory and more of a regular happiness for him, that Eggsy's heart swells and he thinks, _this must be it._

That kind of love. 

\- -

One morning over breakfast in February, Eggsy halfway out the door, Harry blowing on his cup of tea, asks casually if Eggsy would like to move in. Eggsy had staggered in the doorway, unsure if he had heard Harry correctly. 

_Move in?_

_Yes_.

_I mean—_ Eggsy looks around at his shoes strewn across the foyer, a spare leash of JB’s on the hook— _haven't I already?_

Eggsy’s packed by the end of the week, leaving the temporary Kingsman flat behind, he and Harry hauling his belongings inside on a brisk late afternoon on Saturday. 

Eggsy, still dressed in his coat and gloves, looks at his meagre pile of boxes all stacked up on Harry’s dining room table, and wonders somewhat sadly how a life so full could accumulate in so little. He feels like he's lived enough lifetimes but with nothing to show for it. In Harry's house, surrounded by his entire life and all the things that seemed to be parts of him put on open display, Eggsy feels a sense of jealousy and a wash of shame at not having anything much to add to it. 

A fleeting moment of envy, of hurt, that he swallows down, hides with a smile. He feels small, inconsequential in this house that's supposed to now be his as well, and whatever this yawning ache in his chest means, it seems to grow exponentially when he looks at the framed paintings on Harry’s walls, the solid oak and mahogany furniture that anchor the rooms, the crystal glasses on the sideboard stacked neatly, and wonders where he fits into it all. 

He feels something wearing thin and now that this is his home too, he's starting to notice more things about Harry. What are probably minor things—separate cars to work, how he goes straight to his office when he comes home, late or early, greeting Eggsy as he climbs the stairs. He tells himself that these things, these habits Harry has probably had for years that maybe had slipped his own notice before, don't matter really, not in the grand scheme of things. Harry still comes to bed with him at night, kisses him ardently in the kitchen, falls asleep with him on the sofa while watching a movie. 

Eggsy realizes, looking at the kitchen sink and the towel draped over it illumined by the dim light left on over the range, that he's been waking up alone some mornings, the door to Harry's office shut and locked. 

Harry stands beside him, gently brushing his fingers against the back of Eggsy's hand. 

_Are you alright, darling?_

_Yeah. Yeah, just a bit—_ he waves his hand uselessly at the boxes, unable to finish. 

Harry looks at him with a sympathetic gaze that makes Eggsy turn his eyes down to the floor. 

_This is your home, as much as it is mine._

Eggsy pauses, hesitant to answer, or reveal what it was that made him feel like an intruder in this place where he's stood so many times before. 

It inadvertently takes him back to that day, when he had stood so close to Harry and not in the way he had wanted (had been wanting for weeks and weeks, when he looks back at it now) and told him such ugly, unwarranted truths. He thinks he will always be apologizing for it, that both of them will, a dark cloud, an undeniable hurt made before they had even begun.

He had worried if he could live here, make a home here, in a house that seemed to hold the worst of him, his resentment and stubborn pride and deep-seated fears, sheltering his most jarring tragedy that he was never ready to relive. He had not stepped foot back into Harry's office since that day. 

_I know,_ Eggsy says. 

Harry smiles down at Eggsy, leaning over to capture Eggsy by the waist, tug him close and press a kiss to his temple. He stays there for a brief moment, squeezing Eggsy gently with reassurance and remarkable grounding ability that he had like no one else Eggsy has ever met, let alone been with. Eggsy gives a conceding nod and Harry pulls back slightly, just enough that he can look over Eggsy carefully, a faint smile still on his face. 

Then, he looks at his watch, turning the face of it towards him. 

_Oh, would you look at the time—it's well after six._ He looks over the boxes. _This can wait for another day, I'm sure._ And Harry, ever the courteous gentlemen, holds his arm out for Eggsy. _Hungry?_

_Starving, actually._

Harry makes a sound of agreement. _Any suggestions?_

_Dunno—feeling like curry, maybe._

_Hmm, that does sound good._

The simple gesture eases some of the imperceptible ache in him, lifts it where it no lingers weighs so heavily on him, even if momentarily. Eggsy flashes him a grin, looping his arm into Harry’s, letting himself be lead out of the house and into the twilight of the mews, wet cobblestone shimmering underneath them with an array of muted light from the houses and the setting sun lining the street. 

Eggsy forgets about the worry of finding his place as they walk, the unease inching back further and further as their evening wears on; they eat in a tiny Indian restaurant doused in rich light with paper streamers hanging over their heads. By the time he's swiping the last piece of naan through the green curry, the uncertainty seems a distant, laughable memory.

When they get back a few hours later, cheeks pinked from the cold, a bit breathless from laughter over a story Harry was telling about a mission he fumbled with spectacular finesse due to a shoddy translator, all he feels is the welcoming warmth of the house as he steps inside. He stands in the foyer shaking off the cold, rubbing his fingers together, and watches Harry as he unwraps his scarf, unbuttons his jacket, hanging them both up on the hooks by the door. 

The simple domesticity of it takes Eggsy by surprise and he realizes: this is what his days will be like, from now on. 

He thinks he could start to like coming home.

\- -

Not every night ends with the nightmares.

Eggsy was used to his own. Knew the dark, long room with a nauseating familiarity, the suffocating way it settled in on him, and he knew what it was like to wake up abruptly and catch his breath, run a shaking hand across his sweat-damp chest, feel his heart thumping under his ribs. He knew where they came from, he knew the panicked start that made him shiver, and with that, he knew how to ground himself, remember where he was. 

Sometimes, he felt a hand gripped around his neck. Others, there is the crack of a gunshot in the distance that he's running towards and, every time, he knows it's coming; and, every time, he is too late. 

Those are his.

Harry's are different. 

Mostly, it comes like this: a lamp or glass of water knocked off the bedside table as Harry jolts awake. The choked-off cry, that aborted sense of danger that has Eggsy rising in a panic, wrenched violently from his own demented, cruel dreams. There's some nights Eggsy thinks the world is spinning so fast, that if he lets go of the sheets or of Harry or of his own arms, he will start to fall and never stop. 

A few times, it’s Eggsy waking to early morning light filling their room, knowing something’s wrong before he even fully open his eyes, to find Harry sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. 

The first time it had happened, Eggsy had thought he’d been praying and kept still, quiet, not wanting to disturb him, stunned at this sudden discovery. When minutes had passed and Harry had still not moved, Eggsy had reached towards him, the bed creaking beneath him. Harry had startled, looking back over his shoulder. It took a fraction of a second for Harry’s distant, sad expression to fade and for him to smile at Eggsy in recognition. He took Eggsy’s outstretched hand in his, bringing the palm of his hand to his lips, pressing a fond kiss to the inside of his wrist.

_Harry—_

_It’s fine,_ Harry had told him. _Just a headache._

It's what he says every time. 

More than the terror of all the other nights, it’s these stilted, tense mornings that make Eggsy most uneasy. That there was something that never felt quite right in the way Harry spoke, how it took him just a bit longer to get himself off the bed, how every step seemed delayed, every touch and smile Eggsy gave though returned was feeble, wavering, falling from his face as soon as he thought Eggsy wasn't looking.

Eggsy had gotten up that morning, picking up his water glass from the table and headed into the bathroom. He ran the cold tap, digging around in the medicine cabinet until he came up with the paracetamol, filling the glass after he had punched out two pills from the blister pack. He walked around the bed, pills in one hand, glass in the other. He offered them both and Harry took them diligently, without looking at Eggsy.

_Nothing I can’t handle, darling, I assure you,_ Harry had said after he had swallowed the pills, handed the glass back to Eggsy. 

Every outcome of these nightmares had an unspoken routine, a set of actions to precede it, an automatic response needed to maintain control: turn on the lights, get Harry awake, hold him close, keep a safe distance away, get the water and paracetamol—then ibuprofen—then sumatriptan—then clonazepam, talk to him in a steady calm tone, let him lash out and hit and scream and leave the room, set out his clothes in the morning, open the curtains and let the sun in, tell him it’s time to get ready for work.

Eggsy’s used to it. He never wanted to get used to it.

\- -

_Arthur has made a note—_

_Oh, this is gonna be rich. Let’s hear it, then._

Gwen gives him a humorous smile, a bit vacant in the way that people have when their patience is probably wearing thin but don't want anyone to know, before looking back down to her folder. Eggsy works his jaw back and forth, folds his arms across his chest.

_He mentions that you have a certain knack for, let’s see here..._ She is running her finger across a typed memo, a fresh piece of paper set on top of the all the others in his file. _He says here… impulsive, destructive and wilful disregard of the organization's standards and protocols._ She glances back up at him. _He seems to be concerned about you._

Eggsy nods, lips pursed into a frown. _He’s concerned, yeah. Okay. Is it standard protocol for the Arthur’s to be ignorant wankers with sticks up their arses?_

_I’m not sure._ She smiles again, this time more amused. _Would you like me to look into it for you?_

Eggsy grins despite his irritation. He shifts his weight in his chair, runs a hand over his face, feels a certainty sink in him like a stone through water, settling in his stomach.

_Look,_ he starts, looking at his feet, _I’m here because someone gave me a chance._

Gwen nods, placing her hands over her knees, long delicate fingers laced together; her nails are painted this grotesque colour, a icy lavender or blue, ashen and pale and vaguely similar to a body long dead and Eggsy stares at them. 

_Your mentor, Galahad. You and he—_

Eggsy shakes his head, stands up without thinking, in a rush to just—not sit still. He circles around the chair, paces behind it for a moment. He doesn't know what to do with this hands so he places them on the back of the chair, bending his fingers until the skin pulls taught, the muscles start to ache. _I’m not talking about that. Not right now._

_Okay._

He scrubs a hand across his face, wiping at his mouth. He wants a cigarette, a strong drink. To go to bed, to sleep for days, to not sleep at all and get on another jet and _do_ something with himself. He wants to do nothing at all.

Then he turns to face her and points at her as if blaming her for this, though he doesn't at all, and she doesn’t look threatened or intimidated despite how aggressive he feels, how aggressive he knows he looks, and she listens to him. 

_I’m here because he saw potential in me. To do something good, yeah? I’m not here to pretend to be something I’m not. I ain’t changing nothing just so some posh prick doesn’t have to be a bit uncomfortable with me having a spot at that table. So what if I go off script a bit? I get my shit done. No one gets hurt that ain't supposed to._

Gwen opens the folder again, with her long fingers and the long nails tapping the corner, and closes it again. Sits and waits, like she’s trying to understand, or she does, but can't think of what to say next. 

Eggsy wants her to say something, anything, because he feels he has said too much. 

_Your success rate is quite high for a new agent,_ Gwen states. 

He winces, inhaling sharply through his nose. He doesn’t know why he feels offended by it, like it was said as insult, baring his cruelty and his aggression he tries to keep in check. His right hand is wrapped in a bandage and the knuckles, where he split and busted the skin when he punched someone that had their hands around his neck, has stained the clean white gauze a garish bright red, bright dots seeping through the threads, spreading in thin, disjointed trails to connect over his pinky and ring finger.

_I do what I need to,_ he says. _Just as I’ve always done_.

\- -

Eggsy notices the tremors in Harry’s hands. Feels it, the consistent shake of his fingers made almost inconspicuous: when Harry laces their hands together in the shuttle car to the estate or runs his hand through Eggsy's hair while they lie in bed in the morning, Eggsy only half-awake. Hears it in how the cups rattle a bit more when Harry washes them, knocking against the sides of the sink, or how his tie was always a bit off centre that Eggsy silently fixes it for him before he steps out the door. 

It’s bad in the mornings. Worse after a few drinks.

When Eggsy points it out, trying to toe the line between concerned and insistent, Harry would manage to put his trembling hands out of sight and smile genially at Eggsy and tell him that he doesn't need to worry.

It's the same answer every time and Eggsy feels uncomfortable pressing the matter any further, maybe because Harry is just so damn calm about it and he felt he was possibly overreacting. 

So, Eggsy eventually stops watching Harry’s hands because he does worry but Harry tells him enough times not to that Eggsy gets tired of hearing it.

One day, when Eggsy takes Harry's hands in his as they walk home from the shop, Harry's hands aren't trembling and Eggsy can't help but bring it up; Harry gives him that genuine smile, says he's getting better. He says he's been going to his appointments and they've adjusted his medications. It's a temporary fix, Harry says over supper later, between talk of the tech departments new developments in untraceable explosives and how Daisy’s getting on at her new nursery school, and that his doctor believes that, in time, the tremors will subside on their own.

_An after effect of the surgery,_ Harry says. He's looking at his plate, concentrating on cutting his roast pork into smaller pieces. Eggsy's watching his hands; they are, miraculously, completely still. 

Eggsy's beginning to hear that a lot: after effect. 

After effect of the surgery. Of the medications. Of the world going to shit. Of surviving it—of surviving after. 

It seems everything is an after effect of some great calamity that had happened without his noticing and all he’s left with is the rubble and debris and the task of fitting it back together with no idea what it had looked like before. 

\- -

Harry doesn't talk.

Well, he does. He talks about the staggering amount of paperwork and backdated reports he has to sift through and how he had managed to stay in the target at the gun range, impressed at his own marksmanship, and how he was getting on his training course, saying it reminded him fondly and rather excruciatingly of the Galahad trials; he talks about the book he's reading and the new tabloid print he's put up in the office and how he thinks he might want to repaint; he talks about the meditative benefits of curating butterfly collections and why he organizes his ties by fabric before colour and why he has never considered a less weird hobby, _thank you, darling_ ; he talks about what the weather was like while Eggsy was away and how he has missed Eggsy so terribly and how he would gladly never get out of bed ever again, as long as Eggsy stays by his side. 

He doesn't talk about the nights he wakes screaming into the dark and Eggsy has to hold him so tight that he shakes, too, and when Eggsy finally pulls away, he's left with angry red marks dug like crescent moons his arms where Harry had clung onto him. 

He doesn't talk about coming in late, reeking of sweat and sweet liquor, collapsing in bed before Eggsy can even roll over to greet him, still bleary from sleep. 

He doesn't talk about the long hours spent alone, longer than needed, and locking himself in his office all night to work, emerging in the morning with blood-shot eyes and gaze withdrawn, mumbling that he had fallen asleep at his desk. 

He doesn't talk about Kentucky when Eggsy asks. He pours himself another drink and stares off past Eggsy’s head, at the door or out the window or at the shadow boxes of colourful butterflies crowding out the wall so nothing else will fit. 

\- -

Not every mission calls for a suit and a pair of polished Oxfords. 

Eggsy spends an excruciating seventy-eight hours in full tactical gear just outside Kiev tracking rebel terrorist cells through the mid-March weather, freezing mud caked up to his knees, under constant overcast skies that never stopped spitting rain the entire time. He tramped three day old dirt onto the plane, earning him an exasperated glare from the extraction pilot Robert, and promptly passed out in the first chair he collapsed his aching, weary body in. 

He should have showered at HQ but the thought of trudging to even the nearby locker rooms seemed like far too great a task at the moment, so he gives a half-hearted salute to Merlin, who watches over the top of his glasses from his control centre as Eggsy shuffles towards the waiting shuttle car, where he once again deposits himself in a chair and sleeps. 

He feels marginally better, if a bit groggy, by the time he ascends to the shop front, staggering out of dressing room one, earning him a silent, concerned look from Andrew, who blessedly calls him a taxi because Eggsy hadn’t actually thought anything beyond . He’s fortunate to be walking away from this one with mostly bruises and a nasty scrape along his right cheek where he had his face unceremoniously shoved into a concrete wall. He slathers antiseptic cream on it under the harsh overhead lights of the sink in dressing room three. He catches sight of himself, purple circles under bloodshot eyes and face pale and gaunt, and sighs before tossing the empty pack of cream in the rubbish bin, flicking off the light. 

_Cold night out tonight, sir_ , Andrew comments as he closes a large book of fabric swatches, switches off the lights in the back of the shop. 

Eggsy hums, focusing on keeping his head level and his eyes open, resisting the urge to rub at the growing itch around his cut. 

_May I suggest a coat?_

Eggsy looks up to Andrew holding out a long overcoat for him, produced from somewhere, staring pointedly at his dirtied and bloodied gear. Which, he realizes belatedly, was difficult to keep conspicuous, even at night. 

_Oh, right._ Eggsy takes the coat obligingly, shrugs it on, wincing at the strain it puts on his aching shoulders. He's dreading even the ten minute ride from the shop to the house, wanting nothing more than a soft bed to fall into. _Thanks, Andrew._

He let’s his eyes fall shut when the taxi turns onto Berkeley Square; he rouses a short time later when the familiar rumble of cobblestones beneath the tires manages to cut through his fuzzy half-dream. Harry must have seen the lights coming up the drive, maybe already waiting for him, because he’s at the bottom steps when Eggsy stumbles inside.

_Well, aren't you a sight to behold,_ Harry comments with a small smile, which falls from his face when Eggsy turns to look at him, the side of his banged up face now visible. _Your face._

_Still pretty, though,_ Eggsy jokes, chuckling weakly. _Should see the other guy._

_Darling,_ Harry says quietly, cautioning. 

_Yeah,_ Eggsy mumbles—for all the things Harry had done and seen, the impossible situations he had gotten himself into and out of, the pages long medical report of his various injuries and close-calls, there was something about Eggsy trudging back from a mission, battered and bruised but alive, that made Harry melancholy, distraught. _Sorry, know I shouldn't joke._

Harry sighs. _I just worry about you._

Eggsy slumps against the wall, all the more weary for having to drag himself the short way inside. He starts to unbutton the coat and lets it slip from his arms into a wrinkled puddle around his feet. 

_I don't think I've ever been this fucking exhausted. Feels like someone's thrown sand in my eyes. Or dirt._ Eggsy rubs vigorously at his eyes, blinks rapidly into the hallway light. _I think they’ve done. Believe it if I weren't up to my fucking knees in piss and shit and mud._ He wipes uselessly at his legs, trying to get some of it off, before feeling guilty about making a bigger mess of the foyer and completely giving up. _Jesus._

Harry closes the space between them, tucking the glasses he had folded in his hand into his cardigan pocket. He reaches out for Eggsy, hand already curling around the back of Eggsy’s neck, leaning in to kiss the top of his head. _I'm glad you're home._

Eggsy makes a disgusted face, turns away, batting feebly at Harry's arm. 

_Ugh, come on—Harry, no, I'm so rank—_

_I'll run you a bath_ , Harry says _._ At Eggsy's half-hearted protest, Harry gives him a stern look that drains all the fight out of him and adds: _Don't argue._

Eggsy sighs. Then nods, conceding quietly to himself that despite how he's more than ready to knock out for at least fifteen hours, getting clean is probably a good idea. _Okay._

Harry steps back, a reassuring squeeze and a smile before his hand falls away, and he’s gone back up the stairs. Eggsy spends a minute pressing his shoulders back against the wall, trying to ease and work out the burning stretch. He can hear the water spluttering through the pipes over his head; taking in the comfort of his surroundings, of being home, of being back with Harry. The commotion must wake JB, bringing the drowsy pug down from the upper level to receive his cursory scratch behind the ears before giving what sounds like a reprimanding snort and flopping down in his usual spot by the door on top of Eggsy’s trainers, promptly falling back asleep. 

Eggsy's fumbling with the straps and clips around his waist, the tips of his fingers practically nerveless with his exhaustion, when Harry is beside him again, making Eggsy grunt in tired surprise. Harry lifts up Eggsy's arms, standing him up from where he was still slumped against the wall and wraps them around his neck. With his head bent between them, Harry starts to undo the straps of Eggsy's gear, making quick work of the zippers and buckles that Eggsy felt were more complicated than necessary, even when in possession of full faculties. 

Somewhere beneath the lethargic, sluggish part of his brain, he feels a bit embarrassed, weirdly self-conscious of Harry undressing him like he's invalid, even after all this time. It hasn’t been long since he moved in, since they made it what would be considered official and he knows, despite the time they spent together before, learning to live with someone is entirely different beast. Sometimes, he still looks at his own body and wonders what Harry sees. Sometimes, he worries about doubt and pity and wrong intentions. Sometimes, he isn't so sure—isn’t sure if he trusts himself enough. 

But Harry always touches him so gently, like he’s made of glass. He has an instinct to fight back, to bristle and square his shoulders, tilt his chin up and say he doesn't need to be coddled, he isn't delicate. Because he’s not, he could never be; built this hardened armour from the years he spent under Dean, in the estates, surviving all the unfair, cruel things life had sent his way. But it's nice—it’s so nice to be looked after, to have someone—anyone—but especially Harry, take such care and consideration of him. It’s not something he’s really used to. But he would be lying if he said he didn't absolutely love it. 

Still, he protests, because it’s become a habit: _You don't gotta undress me._

_I don't. But I want to._

Eggsy leans his weight on Harry as he continues to strip the gear, every piece that drops to the floor taking with it the burdens of a mission, of this demanding life he chose to lead, and left to sit in the front entrance, forgotten until morning. It's a beautiful reprieve, a bit like deliverance and set free, saved from the things they carry for one more night. 

By the time everything is pulled off, Eggsy standing in just his underwear, he feels heavier, but in a tranquil way. Relaxed against Harry, forehead against his shoulder, nose buried into the soft knit of his cardigan: home and safety and love. Harry runs his fingers through Eggsy’s greasy hair and Eggsy doesn't even bother trying to push the hand away; the blunt scratch of Harry’s fingers against the back of his head is almost grounding in it’s caress, sending tingles down his spine, prickling across the backs of his arms.

Harry leads him upstairs, a steadying hand on his arm as they slowly takes the steps. The tub is still filling when they enter the ensuite, the smell of lavender and jasmine filling the room, the steam-filled room making Eggsy want to sink to the floor right there without ever stepping into the bath. With Harry’s help, Eggsy settles into the perfectly warm water. Harry pulls up a stool beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves, grabbing a cloth from a basket on the shelf by the sink and dipping it into the water by Eggsy's leg. 

Eggsy sinks into the water, arms draping over the side of tub, lolling his head back against the edge. He focuses on the motions of Harry’s hands as they wash the days of grime and sweat from his chest, arms, neck; he focuses on the mesmerizing lapping of water against the side of the tub, around his knees, the way the bath salts Harry had dissolved makes the water feel like velvet, intoxicating and sedative. 

He bites down on a hiss when Harry presses too hard at his left side at a fresh bruise; Harry pausing, murmuring _sorry, darling_ and pressing a soft kiss to Eggsy's lips. Harry lightly grazes all the new bruises

_You're so good to me._ Eggsy slurs after minutes have passed, Harry having moved down the side of his tub to wash Eggsy's thighs, calves and working on his feet; he peeks at Harry through a half-closed eye. He feels wonderfully dazed, dreamy almost. _So good for me._

Harry’s lips turn up in a faint, tender smile. _Well, I'm glad to hear that. And here I thought you only kept me because I spoil you._

_Keep you for that, too._

Harry flicks water at him from the tips of his fingers, making Eggsy laugh softly. _Sit up, so I can wash your hair._

Harry finishes washing Eggsy's hair, shampoo smelling of coconut and lime, cradling the back of his head when he rinses him off, fingers carding through his hair. Eggsy thinks he could stay in here forever, just repeating this quiet, drawn-out moment for as long as he is allowed.

But the water is starting to turn cold and his fingers and toes are wrinkled. Harry draws him out of the bath, helping him to stand on the bathmat while Harry fetched a towel, Eggsy shivering slightly from the sudden chill and his fatigue creeping back on him. Once dried off and bath water draining, Harry hands him a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms, sets about turning off the lights as Eggsy dresses. Eggsy flops down on the bed face first, burrowing his face into the pillow: fresh linens, the smell of the detergent Harry has always used, fabric softener that Eggsy thought was a waste of money but greatly appreciates in moments like this. Even from just a half-hour ago, the exasperation seeped into his very bones, the frustration at what he thought was a horrible mission turned awful and gruelling and extraneous, is gone from him; he feels light, lifted.

When Harry crawls in beside him, dressed in his own pyjamas and clicking off the bedside lamp, Eggsy shuffles across the cover, snuggles up to him, resting his chin on Harry’s shoulder. Harry turns his head, their noses bumping in the hazy darkness.

_I meant it, though,_ Eggsy says. _About your being good for me._

_I know, darling._

Eggsy stretches out, gesturing vaguely in Harry’s direction, making a lame effort to grab hold of Harry’s wrist and tug his hand upwards. _You gotta tuck me in, now. Can’t even move my arms. I'm like jelly._

Harry gives a sympathetic click of his tongue. _Oh, you poor thing._ He makes an exaggerated effort of lifting the covers, moving Eggsy’s legs so he can tuck the covers in around him. 

_Mhmm._ Eggsy finds himself wrapped back around Harry, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses under his chin. _And what, no kiss goodnight?_

Harry does kiss him, and Eggsy sighs into it, going languid and loose, hands lazily brushing through Harry's ridiculously soft hair. He brushes his thumbs across Harry’s cheeks, eyes still closed, mapping Harry out by touch alone, tracing the jut of his cheekbones, pushing through the tendrils of hair over his eyebrows, fingertips grazing over the shell of his ear. 

Harry huffs, in surprise or condemnation, when Eggsy licks playfully at his jawline, grasping fingers tangling through his hair. _I thought you were tired._

_I am._ Eggsy wedges a knee between Harry’s legs, curving his body forward to rock up against him. 

Harry is kissing a path down Eggsy's neck, onto his chest, fleeting kisses leaving a trail of saliva that raise the hair on his arms, making him shiver between the coolness of the room and the anticipation of what's to come. 

_I guess you can do all the work this time,_ Eggsy mutters as Harry places a hand around his bare waist, lifting and arching his back, warm breath ghosting across Eggsy’s stomach.

_Have I ever told you that you are completely transparent?_ Harry nuzzles against his ribs, soft lips on his skin. _Also, a terrible liar._

_Mhmm,_ Eggsy hums. _I'm working on it._

And Harry laughs, deep and loud, the sound of it moving through Eggsy in waves. 

—

He's only meant to be in Paris for two days for a surveillance mission and he's not at all apologetic or private with his annoyance with being sent on this non-urgent assignment before he’s even taken off from HQ. Arthur ruined a perfectly good weekend he had planned with Harry, doing absolutely nothing. He wonders if all the Arthur's were going to have it out for him in some way; at least there was the bonus of this Arthur not having tried to poison him yet. 

He has been walking the Rue de Rennes for a few hours, awake for even longer than that when he had trailed the target from her hotel at some ungodly hour that morning, and he truly can't be arsed to care what this woman wants to buy, if she's buying anything at all. But Arthur says he wants to give truth to the rumour that she is in Paris negotiating illegal arms deals with a contact from Baghdad, something that they had ears on for months but needed actual confirmation of to continue with their investigation into her international business cover, so follow Eggsy must. 

Eggsy is standing in front of a shop window, coat turned up against the brisk April weather, pretending to contemplate the pretentious display of printed cashmere scarves while watching the woman cross the street in the shop window’s reflection. She really just seems to be shopping and for this Eggsy is even more irritated, caught up in the melodramatic daydream of him lounging on the couch in Stanhope Mews, his feet tucked under Harry's legs and JB snoring on his chest, watching whatever mindless drivel was on the telly at that particular moment. Because it was definitely better than this, especially after what seemed like a conscious effort on Arthur’s part to send him on back to back missions. 

When she finally ducks into a shop, Eggsy is a minute behind, sauntering in like he’s meant to be here, causal and appropriately bored and mundane, an affable but politely unapproachable look on his face, saying that he does not want to be bothered. 

It takes a moment for him to notice where he is. Or, at least, what is being sold in the numerous display cases. From enclosed glass cases spanning the length of the room, all manner of gold and silver and diamonds glimmer up at him. He walked down the length of the case closest to him, one eye trained on the woman—talking now to a clerk near the back register—while avoiding eye contact with any of the over zealous staff, a ravenous look in their bright eyes, him looking just like the kind of dopey-eyed, impressionable kind of man who would drop three months salary on an engagement ring just because someone had told him to. 

Except—

He pauses in front of a display of rings, layers nested on top of each other in trays of dark blue velvet. An array of smoke-grey tungsten, others brushed silver and gold, some mixed, others inset with diamonds, most plain. 

The one that catches his eye, though, is unassuming—a gleaming silver with a dark centre inlay. It's not the most spectacular one in the lot but when Eggsy sees it, he's overwhelmed with a sudden desire to do something reckless, something he never thought he would. 

He reaches out, letting his hands hover just above the glass.

His glasses flash with an incoming call and he taps the side.

_She's leaving, Gawain_ , his handler, Morien,informs him. _She might have you made, just as a heads up._

Eggsy slowly looks up, over to the shop door. Ah, and that she was—slipping back out the door, empty handed.

_Thank you,_ Eggsy says, to Morien and the staff as he backs away from the display case. 

_Pretty ring, though._

Eggsy gives a nod and steps out after the woman, following her back the way she came towards her hotel, keeping a noticeable distance from her, not entirely concerned in keeping right on her. 

When he's secured footage the next day of her shaking hands with her contact in an abandoned warehouse parking lot along the Seine, hopefully enough for Arthur to formulate their next move, he heads back down to Rue de Rennes, retracing his steps from the day before. He steps back into the shop with some trepidation, wondering what he's even doing here, why he's convinced this is a good idea: no one recognizes him and he makes his way to the last display case, scanning the rows of shiny rings until he spots it. 

_Ah, Monsieur—what may I help you with?_

This time, Eggsy doesn't leave empty handed. 

—

A month passes before he even mentions the ring to anyone else, keeping it in its velvet lined box in a locked drawer in his desk at the mansion. He takes it out every few days, runs his finger over the inlay, spins it on the desktop, oscillates between a secret elation and a gut-curdling dread. 

It’s late May when Eggsy finds himself sprawled out on Roxy’s rooftop deck, arms folded underneath his head, watching a potted palm tree move in the faint breeze. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, Roxy insisting on doing her yoga outside and Eggsy’s not much in the mood to be sitting alone in her flat.

He’s trying to keep his eyes covered from the sun but he’s keeping an eye on her too, where she’s relaxed into some curled up pose, her hands stretched out in front of her. She’s told him numerous times that he’s not bothering her, talking to her during her routine, but he never does; he never much liked it when someone tried to carry on a conversation with him while he was training, even requesting his handlers keep the chatter to a minimum. He finds it hard to focus, like that. Always been that way, ever since he was little. 

Roxy tells him again that she doesn’t mind, like she can tell just by his face that he has something he needs to discuss. He still waits until she's finished, wanting to make sure he's not distracting her and that he doesn't lose his own focus. 

_So… I was thinking._

She peeks at him from underneath her arm. Eggsy squints up at the sun, his mouth twitching as he works out he's going to tell her, a coiling apprehension in his gut. 

_I was gonna ask Harry to marry me,_ Eggsy says, fast and mumbling; he thinks maybe she doesn't hear for how long it takes her to respond. 

She sits up from her pose, resting her hands on her lap. Her cheeks are flushed and her arms are covered in a thin sheen of sweat. _Oh._

_Wow,_ Eggsy replies dryly, propping himself up on his elbow so he can look at her. _Don't get too excited._

_I'm just—thinking,_ she finishes weakly, looking abashed. 

_Rox!_

Roxy gives him an exhausted roll of her eyes. _Do you really need to?_

_You think I shouldn't?_

She huffs out a breath, waving her hand absently at him. _No, that's not it. It's just… Eggsy, don’t you think you’re moving a little fast?_

_What?_ Eggsy sits up, defensive in the way people only can be when faced with something they know to be true and wanting to deny every facet of it. _Meaning what?_

_You've been together, what—less than a year?_

_We've known each other for longer than that,_ Eggsy points out sharply. 

She stands up, bending to pick up a rolled up towel, dragging it across her brow, around her neck, watching Eggsy. _You know what I mean. You've just moved in… it's all rather sudden._

Eggsy finally lets his hands drop from where he was still covering his eyes, the sun now blinding him. Even when he closes his eyes, his eyelids are suffused with a red glow. 

_I'm sorry, Eggsy._ She sounds closer to him now, like she's standing over him. _I just want… you need to be sure._ When he doesn't answer, she asks, _Are you sure it's the right time?_

He has to think about this and he's not really sure if he wants to. _I dunno. I'm beginning to wonder if there really isn't a right time._


	3. Chapter 3

June comes and Eggsy’s beginning to notice. 

Harry's been keeping his office at the estate locked and Eggsy’s stopped knocking on it randomly, just coming by to say hi just because he can, because that's what people do when they're together. Tired of Harry always telling him to go home, rest, he will see him then, without ever looking up from his paperwork. Tired of having to be called into Harry's office, setting up times that worked for both of them; scheduled appointments, even though Harry sighed and said they were not. 

Then, Harry starts coming home late. Sometimes, not coming home at all. Eggsy waits up at first, text messages sent and received: _Late with the paperwork, don't wait up_. He doesn't, having his own work, his own missions, to keep him distracted and occupied. 

But things start to add up, coalesce into an entirely different picture: the separate cars into the shop, coming home and straight into his office to drop off documents, extended training sessions and unexpected meetings with Arthur. Harry's training always happening while Eggsy is gone on a mission, stuck in a meeting with Arthur, in his own sessions. He didn't notice at first… it made sense, really, for how often he was gone. 

The smell of liquor on Harry’s breath. The drinks after work, after supper, late into the night, reading his book or in his office, door closed and Eggsy still won't go in there. The taste of it on Harry’s lips when Eggsy meets him for lunch. Eyes glazed for a moment before he blinks, looks down at Eggsy, smiling and clear-eyed. 

Eggsy is tapping a pen against Merlin’s desk and Merlin's eyebrows are furrowed, trying to concentrate on the screens before him.

_That's not annoying to listen to_ , Merlin points out. 

_Sorry_. Eggsy stops. He doesn't look up. He still holds the pen, hovering just above the desk. 

_Isn't there anyone else you can go bother?_ Merlin asks after a moment, peering at Eggsy over the top of his glasses. It reminds Eggsy distinctly of school teachers, of being reprimanded for talking out of turn, for not knowing his place. 

_Nah, I like bothering you best._

Merlin grunts. _Aren't you supposed to be Harry’s lapdog?_

Eggsy goes still. He sets the pen down carefully in front of him, making sure it doesn't roll away, before folding his hands in his lap, slow and deliberate movements. Merlin watches him carefully, expression composed, betraying nothing of what the man was ever thinking. 

_What is it?_ Merlin asks. 

Eggsy chews on his bottom lip, the skin dry and flaking. He had been in Mozambique for two weeks and he had stopped caring what he looked like after three days; Harry had only tutted, shook his head in disappointment, when Eggsy came home with his skin peeling, permanently red across his cheeks and around ears. 

_I dunno. It's just—has he always been, y’know?_ Eggsy waves his hand in front of his face. 

Merlin's eyebrows tick up. Eggsy does not want to have to say it out loud. 

_Sometimes, he's—it's hard._ To put up with. He can't believe how timid, how small, unsure he sounds. _Like he won't let me in or something._

What Merlin does Eggsy wouldn't exactly call a shrug, the man is far too controlled for that, but it's something like that. Dismissive, unperturbed. Eggsy doesn't know if that's a good thing or not. 

Merlin's turned back to the screens before him when he speaks again, his face set into impassive concentration, hands moving deftly across the keyboards. 

_Harry is… Harry. There are things about him that make him remarkable. And then there are things that make you want to ring his neck._

Eggsy nods, exhales through his nose, runs his fingers through his hair. 

Merlin must catch him out of the corner of his eye because he turns from his computers again, and though his expression has softened, there's a strained, impatient look about him that makes all of Eggsy's resolve to open up to Merlin wither away. 

_These things take time. Harry is stuck in his ways. The consequences of being a spy and being on in years. He’ll ease out._

Eggsy doesn't really get it but maybe it's something he just needs to wait out. There's still enough good in it, between them, that Eggsy can brush off the nuisances that come between them, the disagreements they've had with relative ease. It's just going to take time, he tells himself, half-heartedly clinging onto that notion, just like it had when Harry had woken up, barely alive but alive, and no one had really known what to expect, if to expect anything at all. 

Just another unknown path to navigate, to tread through in the dark. He’d walked enough of these alone and it gives him a slight sense of relief but it's not enough. Sadly, he thinks as he leaves Merlin to his work, it would have to be enough. 

\- -

_You lose your father at a young age, raised by a single mother in the estates—until your stepfather came along. What was he like?_

_About as well as you’d expect. You read my files._

Eggsy wanted to have a smoke and Gwen said he could smoke inside, but he felt like he really shouldn't, even if he debated it while twirling the unlit cigarette between his fingers. Instead, he opened the balcony doors and they sat out on the portico, overlooking the inner garden, with its manicured grass and its shaded trees, a oval pond framed by clusters of tall flowers in full bloom. Gwen followed him outside, file containing his entire life condensed into a print-out and some loose sheets on her lap. 

He's leaning on the marble balustrade, watching a pair of swans drift in aimless circles around on the water. He didn't even know there were swans here. Or a pond, actually. He hadn't spent much time, really, wandering about the grounds, outside of what he had seen during the military marches at dawn and running his twenty kilometres in full kit during a heat wave. He can't imagine who looks after them and has this absurd vision of Merlin being their caretaker, pacing the length of the pond, clicking his tongue, cooing at the birds, and throwing bits of bread at them: it makes him laugh, and he shares it with Gwen just to see her give an amused smile in return. 

_I think they have someone for that_ , Gwen says. _Though I've never actually seen anyone out there._

_Yeah, I know_ , Eggsy says, blowing out a mouthful smoke. _Maybe it'd be a good hobby for him. Can't yell at swans. Relaxing like, what do you call it… meditation._

She's sitting a ways from him, her shoes kicked off, flexing her toes, face turned up towards the sun.

_You showed up at emergency quite a bit in your youth_ , Gwen states. 

Eggsy shrugs, takes another drag. _It happens. Just what it was like out there. I was a stupid kid—got into all sorts of shit I shouldn't’ve._

_And you never ended up in emergency because of Dean?_

Eggsy looks down at her, frowning. He always rises to the bait she lays out, how she picks at his most tender parts to get him to talk, knowing it makes him defensive, nervy—but he trusts her, somehow. She's easy to talk to, at least, though he's not sure if that's a good sign or not; not anymore. Everyone is easy to talk to nowadays, with what he knows of how to charm and impress and mislead people who believe everything he says, and he's not in the business of trust. 

_You know I did,_ he replies curtly. _Held a knife to my neck more times than I can count. That ain't even the worst of what he'd done._

_Sounds like a hard way to live_. Gwen stops flexing her toes and looks at him, squinting into the sun. _To grow up, as a child._

_Yeah, well._ Eggsy grits his teeth, swallows hard, trying to rid the sour taste of smoke at the back of his mouth. _Everyone's got it much the same way there. I was just one of many and you don't talk about it if it ain't yours to talk about, you get me? Keep to your own._

_And what about now? Do you still keep to your own?_

Eggsy takes one last drag of his cigarette before he stubs it on the stone railing and flicks it towards the pond, watching it land and ripple the calm surface, the swans floating around it, curious until it sinks below the surface and they turn away. 

_I got out, alright? Most people ain't so lucky and I'm not here to start asking questions. I got out. I'm taking it for what it's worth._

\- -

Once, they were fighting. No, arguing. About—what? One of those arguments that never really started at all, just evolved from some other conversation where something was said and the other took it wrong, too personally. Couldn't remember who started it or what was said to bring them to this point, where they were standing on opposite ends of the room like they couldn't stand to be any closer, mouths set with deliberate anger and refusing to be the first to back down. 

They were arguing and the timer had went off. Eggsy was cooking supper. He can't remember what. Something in the oven. He had been home all day. Harry hadn't. Maybe that was it, why they were arguing; because Eggsy had the day off and Harry had gone into work and Eggsy knows, he fucking knows, that Harry isn’t telling the whole truth. The timer had went off and Eggsy, distracted by the fight he doesn't remember beginning, had yanked open the oven door and grabbed the pan with his bare hand. He wasn't thinking but he was—he was thinking about what he had wanted to say to Harry next, something cruel and ugly and so unlike him. 

In that moment, though, it was like him. 

He reels back from the shock, cradling the burnt hand against his chest, hissing through his teeth. He looks at the angry red marks instantly blooming on his fingers the heel of his palm. He can only concentrate on the excruciating sting that throbs down his arm and crackles with sharp points of pain under his skin. He can feel nothing else, not even the ache in his chest that had been lingering, scrounging around like a scavenging bird picking at the remains of his good will, for days. 

Once, when he was seventeen, he got it in his head that he could make Dean leave. He could scare him off, if only he stood up to him. Made himself bigger, meaner, angrier. He remembers walking home from Ryan’s, a little drunk from his mom’s vodka and a little high from the weed they had nicked from Jamal’s sister, the walk and the cold night air making him feel invincible with all the space between him and Dean. 

He threw the door open to the flat, dizzy with bravado and determination, met with the acrid stench of sweat and old take-out pizza and beer, and looked right at Dean’s dazed, red-blotched face, into his watery grey eyes, and told him to _fuck off_. He told him to fuck off and Dean had slammed his head against the counter, nails digging against his scalp and cheeks, and held one hand on the hot stove top while his mum screamed and screamed.

Eggsy doesn’t remember if he had screamed, too. Just the skin searing on his hand as Dean laughed and told him _I'll fuck off when I want_ , dribbling spit on his face. 

There was a pot on the floor. Maybe something had been cooking when he had come home. He can't remember now, if the stove was already on or if Dean turned it on, in that moment of rage. Eggsy doesn't remember waiting for the stove to heat up or how long he had to wait, how long Dean held him there. 

He remembers the debilitating pain in the weeks that followed, that bandage that stunk with pus and dead skin, that always needed changing and how Dean never said a word about it, didn't even look at Eggsy afterwards. How the skin felt tight and rigid as it healed and he couldn't hold much of anything because it felt like it would split apart if he squeezed too tight. He remembers throwing a punch in a fight a month later with his other hand, uncoordinated, the other guy laughing at him when the it landed with barely enough force to make the guy react. 

Eggsy fumbles with the cold tap and sticks his hand under, a shuddering sigh of relief falling from his slack mouth. He glances back at Harry, where he's still standing at the end of the dining table, blinking stupidly into the dim light, hands at his sides. Looking distantly bewildered, like he isn't sure why they weren't still arguing. 

Harry had been drinking. Was drunk when he got home. Maybe that was it, actually, Eggsy thinks as he lets his hand go numb under the spray of water. Then he thinks about how tight his fingers already feel, tense under the pain.

Harry moved like he didn't remember how to walk. Stilted, stumbling. Eggsy feels a sadness settle m into his heart, a defeat that comes long suffering, when he wasn't even sure what he had been fighting so hard for, or against. 

But Harry wasn't stumbling, no. Eggsy's vision is blurring, like staring out under water; it's the pain, he thinks, but it doesn't register anymore. He knows it's there but doesn't really feel it, not like he should. It's lessening, not as bad as the time with Dean; the nurse in A&E terrified for him, telling him so, saying over and over he was a lucky bastard that it wasn't worse, that he probably wouldn't lose feeling in his hand if it healed alright. Sometimes, he could touch the heel of his palm and feel nothing at all; pressure, flesh, the curve of bone. 

The tap is still running and the water is turning freezing cold, his wrist is going numb already. Harry had been walking towards him with hesitation. That's why he looked like that, so strange. Eggsy sees it now, in his downturned face. Something like shame in the worrying of his lip. 

_I don't like it, Harry._

The water is still on and it sounds so incredibly loud spraying against the the sink, like it loops back on itself, building in its crescendo. Harry has pulled down the first aid kit from the cupboard, pops it open. Thumbs resting on the clasps. He stares into the box, assessing the contents, like he needed reminding of their purpose. 

_I know._

_It fucking scares me, alright? All this shit you keep buried._

Harry had been nodding. He turned off the tap. He didn't touch Eggsy but he held out his own hand, waiting. He let Eggsy put his red aching hand on his own warm palm. 

_I know. I know._

_I don't like it._

It scared him to say it. And to say it again. Like Harry would decide that this was the exact moment that this was all done, he was fed up of playing his part in this life, a facade of a life, and that he just wanted to be left alone once again. The thought makes Eggsy go momentarily weak, leaning against the counter, his free hand gripping the cold, wet sink. 

_You know I'd never hurt you. I never could. Eggsy, you have to know that._

He looks at Harry. Smells the liquor on him, sour and stale. 

He watches Harry concentrating on spreading salve on Eggsy’s palm, wiping the excess left on his fingers off on a towel, unwrapping the gauze carefully with expert fingers. Harry, eyes sharp but still wavering. The smell of liquor. His hands don't shake and Eggsy wonders how many years Harry has lived this way and if he ends it with him now, makes him give up all these debilitating crutches and aids he has come to rely on, if Harry would be able to live like that: without. 

He thinks, despairingly, that he truly may not. 

_I'd never hurt you._

Eggsy wants to tell him that there's different kinds of hurt. But he knows Harry knows that, he knows that's why Harry won't look him in the eye, comes home late, makes excuses and kisses Eggsy when he shouldn't, when he should say something to explain and can't, or won't. He knows all the kinds of hurt, every single way a person can be split open and taken apart and left barren without even knowing until it's too late, love in their eyes. Blinded. 

Harry knows that hurt, maybe far better than Eggsy does, and that's why he stands here in their kitchen, saying nothing. The drip of faucet in the sink is louder than anything else ever has been and it drowns out all other thought, all other reason, as Harry secures the gauze around Eggsy's hand and steps back, a foot of space between them, and looks at Eggsy expectantly and Eggsy can't think of what to give to him, in this moment. Doesn't think he should give anything at all. 

When Eggsy shows up at the shop the next morning for debrief, he manages to laugh it off, waving his bandaged hand about, joking that he's a rubbish cook for all that's worth. 

\- -

Eggsy listens for the nights Harry comes home late, stumbling through the door. Muttering, lock clicking, lock clicking, lock clicking. The insistent beep of the security system, warning note, another warning note, _fucking shit_ , another warning note and the noise stops. Knocking against the stairs as he takes off his shoes, his inaudible voice carrying through the quiet house. JB skittering across the floor, barking, Harry shushing him, _quiet, JB, mustn't wake the master_ , chuckling. 

Eggsy will stay where he is, in bed or tidying up the sitting room or standing in the hall, and listen and wait for Harry to fumble his way through the dining room; sometimes, he will hear the rattle of glass and a chair scraping across the floor, the heavy thump as Harry sits.

Sometimes, this won’t happen, and Harry will make his way up the stairs as soon as he’s inside, pausing on the small landing. Eggsy will listen to him lean against the wall, breathing heavily.

Eggsy will wait for him by the bedroom door and their eyes will meet in the dark hall and Harry will sometimes hang his head, hand braced on the wall, still swaying. 

And Eggsy will take Harry in his arms when the man stumbles over his own feet, reaching out to steady himself on the doorframe. And he will lead Harry towards their bathroom, to undress him slowly and wash his face. And he will let Harry sway into him, his face and chest flushed with heat and drink, will let Harry nuzzle against his neck, slurring as he speaks into his skin, _I love you, I love you, you’re so—so good to me, for me, taking care of me, my lovely darling_. And Eggsy will let him, Eggsy will let him because he wants to hear Harry say those words. He will let Harry press against him, with groping, restless hands tending at his shoulders, his neck, his face, because sometimes there will be days and days when Harry won’t.

He will let Harry love him like this, and then take him to bed, where Harry will want him to join but always falls asleep with a protestation on his lips, his hand still curled around Eggsy’s wrist, half under the covers. Eggsy will look at Harry, feeling some unknowable complication of heartache and devotion, and he will turn out the light, snap his fingers for JB to follow and he will sleep on the couch, or in the guest room down the hall, just like the first time he stayed in Harry’s house and they drank martinis early into the morning and Eggsy thought his life could never get any better than this.

He thinks about that afternoon so few months ago that they sat in the atrium and the world passed them by under a bright blue sky; he thinks about the water raising his skin in goosebumps and how Harry held him close when Eggsy said he loved him, he was in love with him.

How Eggsy loved him and was in love with him and loved him still, and how it hurt so much worse than he ever thought it could.

\- - 

_You're his oldest friend._

_His only friend, more like it._ Merlin pauses from where he is sorting through files stacked before him, looking distracted and flustered. 

_But I don't fucking know what to do._

_Eggsy… Harry does not let many people in as friends. Let alone what he has with you._

This conversation has happened before, enough times, and yet they keep circling what Eggsy really wants to discuss, what Merlin attempts to mollify and avoid, effectively brush off. How many times they've been here. It all seems to repeat, an endless cycle of misery and threats and appeasement, a redundancy that he comes to expect. He's fucking sick of it, to be honest. 

_He's killing himself, Merlin._

Eggsy does not quite grasp the staggering extent of what he says, the vicious weight of it and what it will mean until the words are already hanging between them and Eggsy cannot take them back. 

Merlin doesn't even flinch from where he's sitting, staring down at an open file. 

_He has a far greater tolerance than you realize_ , Merlin says plainly. 

Eggsy feels a disgusting lurch in his stomach and if he wasn't still slightly terrified of Merlin, Eggsy would hit him. Throw something at him. Yell at him. Anything other than standing uselessly where he is. 

_It ain't that._ Eggsy doesn't know who else to even tell this to—Merlin's the only one left in Kingsman who has a connection to Harry besides him the legendary survivor of a bullet to the head, the man who came back from the dead, to be respected and admired and avoided. Harry didn't have many friends, not ones that mattered in times like this, Eggsy came to realize. _He won't talk about it and it's killing him. I’ve tried, I have and he just—he won't say a fucking thing to me._

Merlin lets Eggsy finish; he takes off his glasses, rubs at his eyes, puts the glasses back on. He has a look like he may be considering something but is stuck on indecisiveness.

It’s late, Merlin finally tells him, sound almost bored. _Your jet to North Korea is still leaving at oh-five hundred hours. You should get some sleep._

Eggsy leaves because he's not sure what else he can say that hasn't already been said. 

\- -

Every other week, Percival and Lamorak invite Eggsy out for drinks at posh gentlemen's club in Westminster that was a mix of repressed vulgarity dressed up as proprietary charm, drowned out in hazy cigar smoke and butter-soft leather armchairs. Eggsy's been out with them before, never came to care for it. But Kingsman, in a roundabout way, encourages camaraderie amongst the agents. Usually in the form of cards and drinks and shared stories of missions, both spectacular and dreadful. 

He's running out of excuses not to go anymore. He doesn't want to be rude, but it ends up being so. He can see it in the way their smiles go rigid when he declines once again. He really doesn't have paperwork, he really doesn't have to see his mum, he's really not that tired.

What he does have is… Harry, at home. Or in his office. Somewhere out there when he tells Eggsy's he's gone for a walk that last hours, stuck in the office for a vague reason that Eggsy is too tired to pry out of him in short, superficial texts. He might even be at the club, sitting back in one of those chairs, invited out by one of the other agents, unburdened by Eggsy's presence in the house. Free to do as he pleases. 

They can see through Eggsy’s excuses—as they should, they are spies after all—and he comes not to care. Let them think he hates them. It's better than revealing the truth, that the sight of scotch in crystal glasses makes him sick. 

\- -

The door creaks just as it opens, the old floorboards moaning beneath his feet. Inside, the bedroom is mostly dark, unrecognizable, curtains drawn against the morning. The stale odour of sweat, something more sour—familiar in a lot of miserable ways. 

Eggsy had fallen asleep on the couch the night before, waiting—foolishly—for Harry. He apparently hadn’t noticed that Eggsy wasn't in bed when he finally did come home.

Eggsy doesn’t dare turn on the lights. He stands in the doorway, his hand resting on the wall, feeling like an intruder.

_Harry?_

There's no answer but he can hear Harry breathing heavily, shifting under the sheets.

_Harry, you gotta get up. Pause. I’m heading into work._

When Harry doesn’t answer, he walks over to the bed, and stands there, unsure. He reaches forward, gives Harry's shoulder a quick shove and receives a muffled groan, a half formed protest, in return. Eggsy starts pulling down the covers, yanking roughly on them; startled when Harry suddenly stirs and grips the covers to keep them over his head. 

_Come on, I’m not—_

_Would you piss off?_ Harry snaps. He turns over, only his the back of his head visible, buries his face back into the pillows. 

Eggsy's hands are still fisted in the covers, frozen in an aborted attempt to fling them off.

_Fine._ Eggsy let's go, the covers falling back with a soft puff of air, the grumbling of Harry's figure from beneath the layers. _Fucking fine. See if I give a shit._

His feet land on the stairs louder than he intends. It sounds deafening in the house and he hopes Harry hears it, that it makes his head hurt. 

Eggsy busies himself in the kitchen, setting things down heavier than needed on the counters, slams the door when he lets JB back in, let’s something clatter and fall noisily when he knocks it off the foyer table—Harry's house keys. He doesn't pick them up.

Eggsy waits at the bottom of the stairs, ready to walk to the shop, wanting for Harry to come down the stairs, to smile at him the way he did that made Eggsy softhearted, understanding, and Harry would apologize and kiss him, sleepily and fondly and with endless love, kiss him like he used to in the mornings when they had nowhere else to be, when things seemed better, easier; when Harry didn't come home so late that Eggsy would not hear the door fall closed behind him. 

He will be late if he waits any longer. 

He leaves quietly, careful when he shuts the door behind him; closes his eyes and presses his forehead against the door when he locks it. 

By the time he steps into the shop on Savile Row, he has fixed a smile on his face, is able to greet Andrew with a nod and a cheery hello, and nothing, it seems, is very different from before.


	4. Chapter 4

When time and work allows, it's become a regular occurrence for them to spend a day down at Camden Market. 

Eggsy had frequented the market often with his mum often when he was younger, long accustomed to the mess of brick and mortar buildings, the open air stalls, the intoxicating mix of spices and the brine and must of water from the canal, the invigorating press of people on a busy Saturday afternoon all looking for a good deal, decent food and an easy way to waste away a few hours. How many days had he spent wandering amongst these vendors, enamoured by the plethora of things to look at, reluctant to step too close unless someone mistook his intentions, seeing only a stern looking boy with scruffy clothes and growing suspicious, concerned at his presence. How often him and his mum had stood beneath the bright Camden Lock sign, his mum tucking a ten pound note in his hand, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek that he always brushed off, embarrassed, and then went their separate ways: his mum to the second-hand clothing stalls and mismatched home decor to browse, Eggsy off to the food vendors and the gangly talkative red-head who sold comic books near the Stables Market, a “gently used” sign scrawled in blue marker taped to the table front. 

It had been years, even before he and Harry had started this tradition, since he had taken the short journey on the underground from Rowley Way to Chalk Farm Road, hiking the short distance along the Regent’s Canal to the entrance. So much had changed: the canal market was gone and there was now an indoor market hall, right where the gently used comic book stand used to reside, between Camden Lock and Stables Market. The first time he stepped foot back into the market, he had gone looking for him, wondering if after all this time, something had remained the same. He didn't really have it in him to be disappointed when he realized how much had changed when he wasn’t looking, how briefly unsettling it all was.

Eggsy had just come home the night before from a week-long mission in the back-end of Bulgaria tracking a black arms/war lord moving swiftly through the Middle East; the guy had given him a run for his money, leading him on a meandering chase down the coast of the Black Sea, Morien hissing in his ear to stand down until he finally relented and Tristan had come in for back-up, tapping Eggsy out and taking over with a clap to the shoulder and a wink when they passed each other on the tarmac. Sometimes, he still found his pride getting the best of him, his mulish determination to continue to prove himself when his place was securely cemented—or so Roxy kept reminding him.

They decided the night Eggsy got back that they would head out the next day, the mid-June weather looking promising. They had inevitably slept in, slow to wake, Harry unplugging his alarm clock—Eggsy unable to believe for a man who had a world of technology at his disposal still used an alarm clock from the 80s—when it had blared shrilly at them after hitting snooze for the third time in a row. Taking their time, they arrived in the late afternoon, the market already swarming with curious tourists and fast-paced locals with their heads down, weaving in and out of dog leashes and prams and swaying shopping bags. JB was tugging at his own leash, pacing in front of Eggsy’s feet impatiently, overwhelmed by where to go first; guiltily, Eggsy realizes he can't remember the last time he took JB on a proper walk.

_Hungry_? Harry had his hands tucked into trouser pockets, surveying the crowd before him with a look that seemed bored but Eggsy knew was him surveying his surroundings, constantly evaluating. 

_Well, yeah. Not like you feed me at home_ , Eggsy teases. 

Harry tilts his head towards Eggsy, a perturbed look on his face. Eggsy only grins in response, toeing at JB to move forward.

Harry had once told him that he had come to Camden Market, though infrequently, for many years and it had been a strange sort of sensation to think that he and Harry might have crossed paths in some point of their past, unknowingly, maybe glimpsing each other in passing, lost to a sea of faces. That maybe, somehow, however briefly, they had been a part of each other’s lives between all those years between that night he showed up with the medal at his home and where they were now.

They’ve somehow found themselves in a lull in the crowds, electing to leave their usual passive browsing for later to head straight to the food vendors; Eggsy gravitating towards the stall serving up fish and chips, drinking in the enticing scent of the sea and pungent vinegar, coming back around when he had his paper basket to the always busy market stall where they made from-scratch brownies Eggsy could never resist, and bought two: salted caramel and honeycomb pieces. Harry wandered over to another row of stalls, coming back to where they parted with a steaming flatbread topped with Parma ham, fresh mozzarella and pesto. 

Eggsy has to chew everything on one side, thanks to a knocked out tooth, and the fresh stitches along his cheek that pull and strain with sharp stings every time he opens his mouth. Harry had kissed him there, just above the tender red skin, when he had walked in the front door, had murmured _welcome home_ into his hair; there was the smell of scotch on his breath and Eggsy didn't mention it. 

They find an set of wooden bistro chairs tucked in behind a stall. The multi-coloured bunting hanging above them flutters and flaps in the breeze, music playing from somewhere across the canal, drifting and rising over the still water. Eggsy sets his food down on the vacant chair beside him, looping JB’s lead around his wrist and reaching into his container for a piece of fish to let JB sniff at before he devours the piece with vigour.

_You shouldn't feed him that_. Harry’s tearing at his flatbread with his fingers, pesto staining his fingernails bright green.

_Oh, like you’re one to talk. Sneaking him bacon in the mornings when you think I ain't looking. Gonna spoil him like that, you know_. Eggsy grins up at Harry, scratching JB under his chin; Harry giving him a humoured smile. _Can’t live up to that level of service each day. Giving him a complex and everything._

They sit in easy silence, watching the people move between the stalls around them, eating their food. JB finally settles between Eggsy’s feet after Harry had not so subtly dropped a piece of ham for him, whimpered and panted beside their chairs for another ten minutes before giving up. Eggsy doesn’t mind these moments, when he and Harry are just comfortable and quiet with each other. When he doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence, to craft conversations from thin air; how the uncertainty of what all this was didn’t continously plague him, hover over his head like a dark cloud he could not shake, no matter how many times he tried.

Eggsy's picking at his brownie, careful to tear off chunks so each one has a piece of caramel in it, when he glances beside him to see a couple walking hand-in-hand past them. He’s not sure why he notices them in particular; maybe it’s the way the light hits the ring on the girl’s finger that sparks the train of thought—maybe because it’s been at the back of his mind already. It’s always there once you notice it, always thinking of it, unconsciously looking for it. 

_Harry._

_Hmm—_ Harry, distracted by wiping his fingers on his napkin, raises his eyebrows, glancing briefly in Eggsy's direction. _Yes?_

Eggsy pauses, working out how to word it without it sounding too strange. _Is it—not a thing, for agents to get married? Like, it's allowed and everything, right?_

_Yes._ Harry sits back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. His own gaze has followed Eggsy’s so when Eggsy looks back at him, he’s watching the couple, not him. _I can't say it's very common but there is nothing stopping agents from getting married._ He pauses, considering something, his face turning hard. _It's not an easy life to share with someone. And the trust you must have in them has to be unshakeable._

_Right._

Harry gives him a fond smile, reaches out to brush Eggsy’s knuckles with the back of his hand, an effortless gesture. _What’s inspired this sudden topic? I didn't think you would be interested in that sort of thing._

Eggsy’s attention snaps away from the couple, now moving past his line of vision to another stall further down. _What, getting married?_ Eggsy feels offended by this, somehow. He straightens up in his seat, defensive. _Well, I do. I do wanna get married. That's, like, the reason for it all, innit? Falling in love and all that._

Harry’s smile turns rueful. _You don't need to get married to prove you love someone._

_I know that,_ Eggsy says. _You don't need a cake to celebrate your birthday but it's kinda nice to have one, right?_

_I suppose you're right. Not everyone gets married out of love, either._

_Yeah. Know that, too._ Sometimes, it was because you were lonely and had no better options and were staring down the barrel of a gun that was your kid with no food and no house; and someone offered you a better life, even if only marginally so, and in your desperation, you mistaked it for love. 

Eggsy looks at Harry for a long moment, as if trying to find his own answer, before asking, _Did you ever think about it? Getting married, I mean. When you were younger._

_I can't say I did._ Harry shrugs, brushing stray crumbs from his laps and begins to stand. _I feel I've rather been married to my job these past few decades._

Eggsy blinks up at him, then looks at his half-eaten brownie, having suddenly lost his appetite. _Yeah, guess so._

The trailing ends of the conversation hang between them but neither of them make an attempt to pick it up. Of course, there are many things left unsaid, of what it all means, why Eggsy brought it up at all. But Harry doesn’t push it and Eggsy doesn't either. 

JB is snuffling at his feet, indicating he is ready to continue on. The sun has dipped lower in the sky; Eggsy has lost his resolve to continue on with his train of thought, feeling it foolish now that he has stepped outside of the conversation. He follows Harry, standing and dropping his empty tray and wrapper in the rubbish bin. Harry spends a moment adjusting his suit jacket before he slips JB’s lead from Eggsy’s wrist, wrapping it around his own, and taking Eggsy’s hand in his. 

They walk along the canal, laughter and voices carrying out across the water, waterbuses with their tarps rolled up, Eggsy and Harry heading back the way they came. They stop at a crossroads, where the market extends further in, Harry glancing that way before looking to Eggsy. 

_Want to keep going?_ Harry asks.

Eggsy shrugs, the events of the last few days finally catching up to him, his jaw aching and sore, his body weary and ready for sleep. _Maybe just head home._

Harry wraps an arm around Eggsy’s waist, pulls him closer to kiss the top of his head. _Of course._

They are quiet the short walk to Chalk Farm Station. Eggsy drifts off into a light sleep as soon as the train is going, cheek pressed uncomfortably into Harry’s shoulder, JB curled up on Harry’s lap, and Harry has to rouse him awake at Leicester Square. 

Just off the corner of Gloucester Road and Stanhope Gardens, tucked in behind the Nando’s, someone has set up a flower stall. And though they are only two minutes from home and the promise of a comfy bed all that more alluring, Harry wanders over to look at the selection, Eggsy coming up behind him, if a bit begrudgingly. 

Harry is already paying the woman at the stall when Eggsy catches up to him, Harry nodding his thanks, the crinkle of cellophane when he tucks him money clip back into his inner pocket. Eggsy gives Harry a tired, appreciative smile when he’s handed the large bouquet, shifting it to rest in the crook of his folded arm. 

_Been awhile since you bought me flowers, Eggsy points out._

_That it has._

Eggsy smiles wider, threads his free arm through Harry’s and tugs him forward. _So, which ones are these? I recognize the peonies. And the zinnias._

They walk towards home, crossing the street when the light has turned green. Harry is pointing at the flowers in turn, _I think that one may be a larkspur. These ones are cosmos’—feverfew to the fill the rest, it looks like._

And Harry isn’t really watching where he’s going, bending back the edge of the wrapping with his fingers so he can better see the flowers, JB trailing ahead of them, but Eggsy doesn’t think he really needs to watch where he’s going. They’ve walked this same street, this same route, so many times, even Eggsy knows it by heart. 

But with the flowers in his hand, it seems like a different world, just for a moment. It’s an astonishing thing, how easily Harry can make the most mundane and ordinary of things surprising and new.

The flowers sit in a glass vase on the dining room table. They last for two weeks, Eggsy pinching the wilted leaves off with his nails, changing the water constantly. He doesn’t want to give them up.

\- -

What is noted as _irrational and extremely high-risk conduct_ in his files, Eggsy likes to call adaptability. 

And maybe the first few times, when Harry starts sitting in on agency meetings again, Harry smirks and turns his head, covers the humoured pride with a quick hand to smooth it away during debrief when the new Arthur lectures Eggsy yet again about the benefits and necessity of mandatory standard protocol. And the first few times, Eggsy would bump shoulders with Harry as they left a exhausted and rather livid Arthur behind in the meeting room, muttering _no sense of humour, that one_. And maybe the first few times, Eggsy can get away with it with a shrug and a smart remark and a hurried kiss, grinning as Harry concedes, _you little shit_ , said so endearingly in only a way that Harry could. 

But that was the first few times. And, yeah, maybe it wasn't as funny when his comm links went dead for half a day when he was ambushed outside a terrorist compound outside Moscow. When he had come back on, a little worse for the wear with a deep split across his cheek and headache throbbing at the back of his head where he had been slammed against a wall, he almost debated throwing his glasses down an air vent for the beratement Harry was giving him between updates on when his extraction team would be landing. 

He was shaking from the adrenaline and he had to drop his gun because he could hear the metal rattling fiercely in his palm, clicking against the signet ring, and it took him a few minutes after he had finished off the last of the targets, gulping in mouthfuls of air and waiting for the roar of blood in his ears to quiet, before he could open up the comms again.

_You shouldn't even be on the comms, it's for handlers only—_

_Don't tell me the rules, I know protocol, I am overriding it so that I can tell you exactly what—_

_Jesus Christ, Harry, you gotta do this here? Now?_

_You should have left as soon as you lost contact and made your way back to—_

_Fuck that! I've been tailing them for weeks. We'd be back months if I had buggered off._

_And that would have been the correct choice considering you had no back up! Anything could have happened—_

_Well, nothing happened, yeah?_

He knows what the fuck he's doing, even without them shouting directions and orders in his ear, and maybe they don't take kindly to brazen displays of skill, but Eggsy was here for a reason. They kept him here for a reason; they wouldn't have if they didn't think he was worth the risk. He knew how to think on his feet, had no choice but to learn to when he was a kid, always having to be one step ahead of the cops and two steps ahead of Dean and his crew. He wasn't about to let an entire mission go to shit when he knew he could do it on his own. 

_That isn't the point._

_See you on the ground, Galahad._

He doesn't throw the glasses down the air vent but shoves them as far down in his duffel as he can, even with the regret bubbling up already, knowing full well what he would face when he got back. 

\- -

_Harry—how many fucking times do I have to say it?_

(I'm sorry. 

It won't happen again—

It will. 

I'm fucking sorry. 

I love you and I'm so sorry. I love you. 

Oh, sure, it was easy to fall in love. But how long was he allowed to keep it, for it to stay that way? Eggsy never got this far before, never had been given much of a chance to make it here, so far that he had think ahead to where the inevitable always happens. That the good things don't last. Or you spend enough time with it to realize the good things weren't good at all. Isn't that how it all goes, anyway, that things like this don't last. 

Harry had called it equilibrium and Eggsy tries to think where Harry had said it, why Eggsy remembered it now. If it was Harry at all or if he just wanted that memory, to make that impossible connection, like he could sift back through time and find the point where something, fate or the universe or something far more omnisciently cruel, tried to warn him that this was coming. That the world would want balance, that he would eventually owe his part, that he could not be given so much without giving something in return, a debt to be paid, a penance to be served for how selfish he has been. 

He wanted it to be Harry who said it. Harry smiling, on the balcony and reading his book and one finger to his lip, saying, _listen to this—equilibrium_. Harry, doing last Sunday’s papers crossword, sun-limned and beautiful, and Eggsy wondering if he was real, asking, _what's an eleven letter word for an equal balance of opposing forces?_

Opposing forces, push and pull, the strain of trying to hold on too tight. 

He wanted to blame Harry for all of this. So, Harry said it. And Eggsy remembered this and wants to ask Harry why he never warned him.

_You're absolutely fucking reckless_ , Harry says coolly, standing by the sideboard. _You’ve no idea._

_Yeah and you should talk!_ He's gesturing towards the tumbler Harry had emptied in one fluid swallow, was now filling again. _How many is that, then?_

Harry fixes Eggsy with a piercing, heated stare. _None of your business._

_Like it fucking ain't!_ Eggsy steps further into the room. He didn't even pause at HQ, Merlin giving him a warning look and it had only made Eggsy more upset, teeth gnashing and enraged before he even saw Harry’s face. _Ain’t we supposed to do this together or some shit? Didn't you say it, say that you trusted me? That we should trust each other?_

_Oh, do go on yelling_ , Harry remarks sardonically, sweeping his hand with the glass in a wide arc, scotch spilling over and splashing on his shirt cuff, _it's terribly helpful, alarming all of the neighbours…_

_Would just fucking not do that for once! Fucking hell—talk to me, for fucks sake!_

Harry takes a deliberate sip of his drink. _Is that not what we're doing?_

Eggsy clenches his jaw, grinds down on his teeth. _You won't talk about nothing, Harry, it's driving me mental! If you would just talk to me—_

It's an old familiar sound, something that he had buried in a box in the back of his mind, hidden away and forgotten over the years. Needed it for—preservation. Sound of fear. Sound of the world shuddering to a halt. Sound of everything stopping and narrowing and the entire room going tinny and echoing with the pause between breaths. 

Sound of glass shattering on the floor. 

He doesn't mean to, he promised himself so long ago not to let his weakness show for anything, would not ever let himself be so vulnerable, especially not now. But it had been so good, so incredible and he never expected it to end up like this. It had been too fucking good and his time was up, he didn't do right by it and he had no more chances. He'd upset the delicate state of every thing and to set it right, he would have to lose everything. 

In this moment, the world was tilting its way back.

Eggsy doesn't mean to but his limbs go taut, he draws back, flinches, turning his head to brace for what always, _always_ came next. So long ago. 

There’s the sound of the clock in the hallway and the muffled hum of cars through the open window fills the room in and he dares to look back at Harry, for just a second. 

Harry is standing there, broken glass at his feet, hand fisted on the table. And he looks like dark, like all the stars have gone out. He looks so far away that Eggsy doesn't think he'll come back. 

And Eggsy isn't sure he wants to go looking.

\- -

There have been mornings they have spent with their legs tangled, wrapped under covers, not wanting to move, to be the first one to start the day. They want to take their time. 

Eggsy’s laying on his side, tracing the scars across Harry’s skin. Harry smiles, supine and content, his arm draped over Eggsy's waist, his hand spread across Eggsy's back. 

_You remember how you got them all?_ Eggsy asks. 

_Most of them. I've been an agent a long time._

_What about this one?—This one?—And this?_

And Harry tells him about every single one, how he got it, the fight or lack of that surrounded its origins, where he was, to the best that he can recall. Eggsy spends all morning brushing his fingertips across the scars on Harry’s arms, his back, his legs, asking each time where Harry was when he got this one, was the jagged one from falling through glass and was the curved one from a knife, how old was Harry for this one, does this one still hurt even years later—

When he runs his fingers over the silvery spider-web scar beside his left eye, Harry pulls back, turning to look out the window and Eggsy remains there, his fingers hovering where he was touching Harry. 

_And what of you and your scars?_ Harry finally asks, his tone airy, forced. _What stories will you tell me?_

Harry is teasing him, distracting him, kissing the top of his head when Eggsy burrows himself back under the sheets, curling himself around Harry, slipping their hands together.

His scars? Where would he begin. 

Eggsy doesn't think it matters. It's not a part of him anymore. He's always been stronger than what happened to him, or tried to be at least. He wants Harry to see that, only that part of him that survived the wreckage, the part worthy of him and all he's done to get himself here. He worked so hard to be that person. And he thinks, what would Harry think of him if he ever knew?

He rests his head on Harry's shoulder, lets his eyes fall closed, not yet ready to start the day. _My stories ain't as good as yours._


	5. Chapter 5

It was raining that day. Eggsy watches the water pelt the panes of glass, mark crisscrossing trailing beads against the dark grey sky. He wonders if Gwen had opened them earlier, when the air had been briefly humid and charged with electricity, the anticipation of a late summer storm, the grey clouds spreading covering the horizon, crawling closer and closer, bringing the sound of thunder and the smell of damp earth and eating up all the blue, blue sky that sat overtop London that morning like some kind of grotesquely cheery canopy. 

_Your father… he was a candidate as well. What’s that like, especially now, having found your place within Kingsman? Knowing this was how he died? Does it make you want to do more with your time here?_

_Dunno, really. Never gave it much thought._ Eggsy shrugs; it's true. Ever since the day he and Harry used Lee’s legacy, his sacrifice, like a card to be dealt to outbid the other, a tragedy to be lauded and a weapon with which sympathy and battles could be won, he didn't think about his dad. He had tarnished the memory of him enough. 

_Do you remember much of your father?_

Eggsy thinks of Lee’s marine picture he had kept in his room, the pink and gold medal he had worn with so much pride and then with sorrow and then with obligation. Lee’s booming laugh, the scratch of his unshaven cheek against his when Lee scooped him up into an embrace, the cassette tape Eggsy played over and over after Lee died until the strip would only play out a warbled melody and how Dean had crushed it beneath his shoe, and Eggsy had cried, screamed, slamming his fists against Dean’s back, because he was losing the last thing he had of his father, the last thing his mum had, what kept them both holding on. He was twelve and he lost something so innocent and important and he felt himself harden. 

_No. Not really._

\- -

It’s often enough that Eggsy wakes up to an empty bed that it doesn’t raise any immediate alarms when he rolls out of bed and the house is quiet. It takes a moment for Eggsy to get his bearings straight, hand drifting to Harry’s side, feeling the sheets are cool. Harry hadn’t come to bed last night, probably locked away in his office, and gone before he knew Eggsy would wake and it’s awful how ordinary the feeling of disappointment that washes over him is now.

It sours whatever good mood Eggsy could have possibly been in the for day, follows him around as he gets ready for the day. He feels defeated even before the day has begun, shrugging into his jacket, his fingers catching on the cufflinks, not quite cooperating when he attempts a Windsor knot and after multiple failed attempts, does a regular knot, even if it’s lopsided and uneven.

He’s halfway through making toast when he realizes there are no dishes in the sink, the apparent absence of Harry’s usual half-finished mug of tea sitting on the counter. This gives him pause—but it’s not as if Harry wasn't known to take his breakfast at the shop, or the estate. 

Somehow, the thought that Harry couldn't even wait long enough to have his breakfast at home makes Eggsy even more upset. He loses his appetite and throws half a piece of toast to JB, binning the rest. He chokes down half a cup of coffee before the taxi pulls up outside.

It’s almost lonely, in it’s own peculiar way. Though, when he thinks about it, he has been lonely for awhile now.

When he steps into the Kingsman shop, Andrew smiles at him, waving him over.

_Ah, there you are, Gawain. I was hoping you could pass these onto Galahad for me?_ Andrew is holding out a stack of what look to be commission orders—something Harry has probably been neglecting. 

Eggsy takes the papers, nods. _Sure thing, Andrew._

_Have yourself a good day, sir._

_You, too. _  
__

It's not until he's seated in the shuttle, papers in his hands, that he realizes that this means Harry hadn’t come through the shop. He must have stayed the night at the estate, then, either sleeping at his desk or—more likely—drinking the night away.

Eggsy scowls, shoving the order forms in his trouser pocket, knowing they will be wrinkled and creased and ripped at the edges.

By the time he arrives at the terminal, he knows exactly what he’s going to say, riling himself up for the moment where he confronts Harry, corners him and demands an apology or an explanation or something, anything to ease this imperceptible ache that has dug its claws into him and has no intentions of letting go. But it all dissolves as soon he opens Harry’s office door to find it empty, lights off and desk tidied.

Eggsy walks towards the desk, leafing through the papers set to the side, pulling open the drawers absently, a nagging sense of dread seeping in. There is no suit jacket draped over the back of Harry’s armchair, no crystal tumbler out of place on the bar. 

There is no warmth to the room. Like no one had been in there for a long time.

On his way back to the terminal, lost in his own building fear, he bumps into Kay, who is flipping through a mission file in his hands. There’s mumbled apologies, strained polite smiles and Kay stepping back, snapping his file closed.

_All right there, Gawain?_

_Have you seen Harry anywhere?_

_Can’t say I have._ Kay pauses, face turning down in a slight frown; then he adds, _Oh, well, I did see him last night before I left. He was heading to the kitchens. Everything okay?_

Eggsy blinks up at him, and then nods. _No, yeah, it’s all fine. No worries._

Kay doesn’t look convinced and Eggsy can’t think of a way to do so. But when nothing is said between them for a few awkward moments, Kay clears his throat, departing with a _I'm sure he's around here somewhere—maybe with Percival down at the shooting range!_ and continues on, with one last concerned look over his shoulder. When Kay has rounded the corner and Eggsy’s sure he’s out of earshot, he taps the side of his glasses, selecting a private line.

_Harry?_

There isn't even static on the other end, indicating someone on the other end is listening but choosing not to answer.

_Harry, come on, are you there?_

Seconds drag by, stretching out longer and longer, as no one answers on the other end. He waits, as his body runs cold with unwanted acknowledgement, fingers going numb, hair standing up on the back of his neck. 

He quickly taps his glasses again, a nauseating lump in the back of his throat. _Merlin?_

Merlin makes a distant sound of greeting—busy with other things, coordinating and multitasking. 

_Have you seen Harry today?_ He is shocked at how calm he sounds. Especially when he knows what the answer is going to be.

_I haven’t._ Pause, _Have you?_

_No._

The sound of a keys clicking fills his earpiece as Eggsy slumps against the wall, short, shallow breaths, wiping the building sweat from his upper lip. 

_He used his access code last night when he boarded the shuttle. Around twenty-three hundred hours. Did he not come home?_

_No._ His voice feels caught in his chest, tangled up with the breath he can’t quite get out, his mouth dry. _Andrew didn’t see him, neither._

_Get back to the shop, Eggsy._

\- -

Equilibrium, imbalanced. It all comes back to this.

He stumbles forward when the lift brings him ground level, has to reach a hand out to steady himself against the wall. He can feel it again: how the entire world has shifted, tipped up beneath him.

On the small oak desk in the corner, where they kept the measuring tapes, boxes of pins, where they would sit down to write their measurements, he finds Harry's coat, glasses and signet ring on the chair, tucked back into the desk. The coat is folded, neat corners and sleeves tucked in, glasses and ring resting on tops: a deliberate action.

He looks at it so long, the corners of his vision begins to blur. For a moment, he can believe that this isn’t real. 

It takes him a minute to register that Merlin is there, his hand on Eggsy’s shoulder; Eggsy sees his mouth moving but he doesn’t hear anything Merlin is saying. He’s trying to understand what’s being said but all he can concentrate on is the knowledge that Harry is not here, that his things are, and how divorced he feels from it all. Somewhere deep within him, he knows there should be panic, but it gets lost when it tries to surface and all he knows is that everything feels incomplete, intangible. 

Harry is missing. He knows this. He doesn’t have to say it. And he thinks— _this is my fault_. Even if he knows it isn’t.

\- -

By nightfall, Eggsy’s traversed every corner of Stanhope Gardens, following the same trails they usually talk JB on, taken the tube to Chalk Farm and pushed his way through the crowd at Camden Lock, doubles back to Soho, circling mindlessly around Covent Garden, past the Royal Opera House and various theatres he knows Harry favours. He knew even as he was canvassing all the usual places Harry went, the places Eggsy knew Harry talked about often enough, that nothing would come out of it. Needle in a fucking haystack.

Merlin sent Kay to canvas Westminster while he pulled up any CCTV footage he could get his hands on. He kept Eggsy updated throughout the day on how he hadn’t found anything, hadn’t heard anything through his contacts within Scotland Yard, making Eggsy furious, wanting to yell at Merlin to figure out, do better, wasn't he the one who could find anyone, anywhere? And he couldn't find Harry. 

It was overcast all day, end of October, and the rain that had started started as a drizzle that morning had picked up mid-afternoon, blowing in sideways. Eggsy walked with his shoulders hunched around his ears, his coat collar flipped up, but the rain plastered his hair to his face anyway, sending chills through him. The wind in the air was brisk, gelid, his breath coming out in white clouds as he walked. 

He thinks about Harry, having left his coat behind in the shop. How it was probably still folded there, on the chair where Harry had left it the night before. It had rained all night, the streets glistening with the wet, and it had been colder than usual this fall.

Eggsy ends up standing in the courtyard at Somerset House, staring up at the windows, lingering tourists with umbrellas above them milling around him, the oily odour of the Thames churned up by the wind and rain coming in with the breeze. His feet ache from walking on pavement all day, his fingers growing numb with the cold. 

_Gawain._ The sound of Merlin’s voice, of his name, startles him. _I think I’ve found him. I'm pretty sure it's him—picked him up on the CCTV at Clapham Common._

Eggsy turns on his heel, shouldering past someone, mumbling a half-hearted apology when they shout after him, already heading back east towards Temple Station. _Are you sure? What the fuck is he be doing all the way over there? He never goes over there._

Merlin seems to be waiting for something and when he answers, he sounds deflated. _It’s where he used to walk Mr Pickle. He likes the walking trails there better._

Something about this simple admission, this trivial detail that had no bearing on Eggsy’s life, makes him stop in his tracks, a swell of people coming up behind him, jostling around him, looking offended at his sudden stop. He still has a hand poised over his glasses. The rain has streaked them so he can barely see, beads of water obscuring his vision, his frantic breath fogging the bottom half.

Harry had never told him that. 

_Eggsy, I’m on my way. You wait for me._

_What?_ Eggsy shakes his head and continues forward. _No, I’m heading there now. I can be there faster than you. I’m already at Somerset—_

_I know your location,_ Merlin interrupts him crossly. _I am telling you to wait for me before you approach him. That’s an order, Eggsy._

_Fuck that. You tell me exactly what is going on, Merlin, right now._

_Eggsy—_

_Tell me!_ Eggsy cuts him off; he realizes his arms are shaking. _Why ain't anyone telling me anything, for fuck’s sake!_

Merlin sighs. _He has these—episodes, I guess you could call them. He hasn't had one in a long time so I never thought—_

Eggsy doesn't want to hear this, hear all the ways Harry had lied to him, over and over. _Tell me where he is._

_He’s on the southeast end of the park. Eggsy—Eggsy,_ Merlin says hurriedly, _he may not recognize you if you approach him._

_What?_ Eggsy falters to a stop once again. _Why, why wouldn't he recognize me?_

_He forgets himself,_ Merlin says slowly. _Who he is_.

Something cruel and vicious catches around his heart, clamps down and steals his breath. It stays with him the entire ride to Clapham, as he stands dazed on the tube clacking beneath him, hanging onto the overhead bar, bumpong against other commuters, dripping puddles of rainwater onto his shoes. 

The rain is still coming down when he makes his way through the east entrance to the park, the short walk leaving him thoroughly soaked to the bone, his heavy wool coat weighed down by the water. There is a weariness deep in his bones that is making him want to slow down, his eyes itching from exhaustion, but he knows Harry is in there and he has to get to him. 

Darkness is descending rapidly upon him, his way lit only by the pinky-golden sky and the lamps flickering on along the path. Every minute that passes that he doesn’t see Harry makes Eggsy even more nervous, hands clenching to fists inside his coat pockets, his body shivering when the wind whips through the trees.

It's when he rounds a grove of trees and spots a lone man seated on a bench that Eggsy has to pull his glasses off, squint into the dark—but it’s Harry. His posture is surprisingly relaxed, elbows rest on his knees, body bent forward.

_Harry!_

Harry turns to look at him. He visibly goes goes rigid, alarmed, sitting up quickly from his relaxed position. 

_Harry,_ Eggsy says, jogging over. _God, you've got us all worried—_

It's when Eggsy reaches out, his hand open to grasp Harry's, that he realizes that Harry really does not recognize him. There is now an undercurrent of hostility to his assessing gaze, his shoulders turned inward, leaning away from Eggsy. 

_Excuse me?_ Harry’s eyes are narrowed, his voice wavering. _Do I know you?_

Eggsy steps back a bit at this, Oxford's slipping on the wet grass. An uncomfortable, strained smile pulls at his lips, for a moment thinking Harry is joking, before it settles in. He shakes his head. 

_Harry, come on. It's just me. You know me._

_I’ll have to ask you to leave me alone._ Harry shifts down the bench, putting even more distance between them and to Eggsy, it feels like unpassable miles. _Please_.

There's a hand on his shoulder and he jumps at the sudden contact, turning to see Merlin looming over him, a dark look underneath the brim of his cap. 

_I told you to wait for a reason,_ Merlin hisses. 

Eggsy looks back to the bench. Harry's hands are balled into fists on his lap; Eggsy is aware of his own hands, clenched at his sides, lets them fall open. Even in the misting rain, the near darkness, Eggsy can see the indentation on Harry’s right pinkie finger where the signet ring usually sits, the pale skin beneath. 

Merlin gives Eggsy a gentle push to step back as he approaches Harry. Though he's stepped back, Eggsy’s close enough that he can hear them speak.

_Harry, it's Frederick._ Merlin speaks slowly, his words unnervingly calm. Eggsy’s heard the same tone countless of times over the comms, when his own fear got the best of him and he was starting to panic. 

Harry regards Merlin closely before answering. _Hello._

_You remember me, don't you?_

Eventually, Harry answers. _I think so._

_Okay._ Merlin nods. _That's okay, you will. It usually takes a few minutes. May I sit with you?_

Harry stares up at Merlin for a moment before looking back out at the park. _I don’t remember coming here._

_That’s okay, too._ Merlin steps forward, a bit closer. When Harry doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch back, Merlin sits down, taking his time so Harry can choose to move along the bench if he wants. _You used to come here, years ago. With your dog, Mr Pickle. You would take him on walks here._

Harry seems to consider this fact for a long time, deliberating within his own muddied thoughts whether or not it was true before answering. _Yes. He was a Cairn terrier._

_Yes, he was._ Merlin glances back at Eggsy before turning back to Harry. _Would you be willing to come with me? I'm going to take you home._

Harry doesn't move. Instead, he turns and looks directly at Eggsy once again. _Who is he?_

Eggsy takes an aborted step forward, his breath catching painfully in his chest, his heart pounding up to the top of his head. He wants to go to Harry, to sit beside him, take his clenched fists in his hands. But the look on Harry’s face is a horrid display of disorientation, a withdrawn kind of embarrassment and it makes Eggsy feel utterly hopeless. 

_That's Eggsy,_ Merlin explains. _He cares for you, very much._

Harry searches Eggsy’s face with an unwavering attentiveness; he still makes no indication of recognition. _Okay,_ Harry says plainly, as if he accepts this unwarranted fact as truth. Like he knows he has done this all before. 

And in the short time from when he had seen Harry on the park bench to now, for how little time had passed and how little he still knew, Eggsy maintained some sense of hope that this wasn’t as bad as Merlin was making it out to be. How wrong he had been. 

_\- -_

_So, you gonna fill me in now?_

Harry had not looked at him again on the way to Savile Row, kept himself to the back seat, hand tucked under his chin looking for all the world childishly innocent, staring out at a dark dreary London street with a flat, assessing gaze. Merlin sat beside him, talking to Harry in that same monotone voice, explaining where they were going and what they were going to do. Eggsy was delegated to the front seat, shifting uncomfortably against the leather in his soaking wet coat. The driver had produced a grey blanket from the boot of the car without a word, draping it over Harry—who had looked startled but said thank you anyway—before opening the door for him. Eggsy, shivering and feeling restless in the front seat, and needing something to do, had cupped his hands around his mouth and blew on his chilled fingers but the numbness he felt never quite faded. 

Harry had not seemed entirely shocked or disturbed by the biometric mirror or the floor turning into a lift. He went amicably with Merlin to the shuttle, even took his regular spot on the left, closest to the door, like muscle memory. And somehow, this stung worse than the initial moment when Harry had made it clear Eggsy was nothing more than a stranger to him. 

Merlin didn't have to tell him to remain where he was, hovering uncertainly by the double doors that lead into the underground medical wing, when Freya and Joss had greeted them at the lift with stern, dour looks, avoiding Eggsy's feeble attempts at questioning and gently escorted Harry into the nearest room. 

Merlin had disappeared behind the heavy steel door after giving Eggsy one last reassuring look and Eggsy had stayed where he was, not entirely sure where else he could go. When Merlin had come back out half an hour later, Eggsy was standing outside the room with his arms folded across his chest, waiting. 

Merlin almost looks like he doesn't want to answer Eggsy and that pisses Eggsy off even more; after everything, Merlin still refused to admit that something was wrong with Harry. Merlin glances back to the door where he had just exited, as if seeking permission or assurance. He pushes his glasses up on his forehead to rub at the bridge of his nose and Eggsy can see the dark circles beneath his eyes. 

_It's called a dissociative fugue state._ Merlin looks down at his clipboard but doesn't make a motion to type, to bring anything up; his eyes don't even move. _His injury seems to have exacerbated the issue. Usually, it's only lasts a few hours, here and there, at the worst of it._

Eggsy stands up more fully, letting his arms drop to his sides. _He's had them before? And no one thought to tell me that?_

_He hasn't had one in a very long time_ , Merlin points out. 

_How long?_

Merlin's mouth falls into a hard line. _Right after Kentucky._ There must be a look on Eggsy's face because he quickly adds, _But before that, it had been years._

_He had one after the church. It's why I couldn't see him,_ Eggsy says, finally understanding _._ When Merlin nods, Eggsy asks what he'd most been afraid of asking: _This got to do with him drinking?_

Merlin's face twists into something reticent. _It certainly doesn’t help, no. But it’s usually stress that triggers an episode._ He regards Eggsy, not unlike how Harry had in the park, as if he doesn't know him. _How has he been?_

Eggsy bristles. _Fuck, I don’t know, Merlin—not like I haven’t tried to tell you a hundred times what he’s been like._

Merlin stiffens, fingers tensing over the clipboard. 

_I—apologize for my oversight, Eggsy._ Merlin lets his hands fall to his side. _I really thought he had gotten better. Therapy, medication… it seemed to keep it at bay. I had wanted to believe we had seen the worst of it._

Eggsy drags a hand over his face, rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth; his hands are shaking. _The worst of it? Fucking hell, Merlin. What the fuck!_ He asks again, _Why didn’t you tell me?_

But he knew Merlin wouldn't answer. 

Or, he himself already knew it. 

Instead, Merlin just nods, as if to himself, and straightens his shoulders. Clears his throat and brings his clipboard back up again. This time, he is typing. This time, he doesn't look at Eggsy when he speaks. 

_When he wakes, he will be good to go home._

_Whoa, what—you don't want to keep him around, for tests and shit?_

_Besides some dehydration and mild hypothermia symptoms, he is fine. He's only here because he wouldn't take care of it himself._

_I can take care of him,_ Eggsy says defensively. 

_Yes._ Merlin draws in a breath and lets it out in a shuddering sigh. _But this is all a little more than what I'm sure you're used to—_

_If anyone fucking bothered to tell me what was going on, this wouldn't have to be an issue!_ Eggsy gestures to the door, to where Harry is kept from him. _Why did no one tell me!_

_I'm not his bloody keeper_ , Merlin snaps, his face stony. _If he wanted to tell you, he would have._

And Harry hadn't. Harry had kept yet another secret from Eggsy. Harry had chose not to tell Eggsy so many things. 

He feels surrounded, constantly suffocated, by the secrets they keep.

Eggsy feels himself deflate. _He just disappeared for almost two days, Merlin. What am I supposed to do?_

Merlin searches him for a moment before saying, _Go home, Gawain._ Merlin turns on his heel, making to leave. Over his shoulder, head still bowed to his clipboard, he says, _Get some rest._

For a moment, Eggsy is left stunned, watching Merlin walk away before he calls after him, _Merlin, what the fuck!_ —but he gets no response. 

And he means to stand here all night, just out of sheer spite and hurt and anger, so he can be the first one in the room when Harry wakes, to tear into him properly about all this; but as soon as Merlin is gone, the exhaustion of the day washes over him like a wave and his body sags, weak with disordered thoughts and things brought to light. He slumps a shoulder against the concrete wall, unable to stop his head from following suit. 

He manages to get himself to the lift, stabbing blearily at the button to take him up. He walks along the quiet, dark halls of the Kingsman estate, everything aglow in blue moonlight; it feels abandoned, a hollow emptiness that has traces of life lingering, like everyone had fled all at once, in a hurry. He manages to toe off his shoes once he gets to his own office, leaning with one hand against the wall and loosen his tie and collar before he collapses on the couch in his office, unable to stay awake any longer. 

\- -

He is down at medical soon after he wakes up, taking a hurried minute to scrub at his face, put on his tie and comb back his now greasy hair. Merlin is already in the room when Eggsy steps in the room, Harry sitting up in his bed, staring forlornly down at his wrinkled shirt, the mud-splattered trousers, Freya over by the linen cabinet, watching over Merlin’s observation with keen eyes. 

Eggsy feels a small, sharp twinge of guilt for not going back to the house, getting them both a spare change of clothes. 

They all look up at him when he enters; none of them say a word and for a minute, Eggsy wonders if he should be here at all. But Harry is here and—Eggsy needs to know. He has to know, everything. 

Merlin gives a curt nod and turns to face Harry. _A few questions to make sure you're back with us._

_And I shall not protest because it's protocol and you will skin my hide if I make a fuss, is that right?_ Harry answers with a wry smile. 

_Precisely._ Merlin taps on his clipboard. _Now, first off. Full name?_

_Harry Edward Hart._

Merlin’s fingers move across the screen. 

_Good. And date of birth?_

_Fourteenth of July, 1963._

_Address._

_Number eleven Stanhope Mews._ And Harry looks up with a faint smile as he says this, catching Eggsy's eye. _Where I live with Eggsy Unwin and his podgy little pug who’s managed to drool and chew on all my best shoes._

Eggsy ducks his head, drags the edge of his Oxford against the battle tile floor, a weird strangled feeling curdling in his gut, climbing up the back of his throat. 

He only looks back up when Merlin speaks and Harry is no longer looking at him. 

_And where are you now?_

_Kingsman medical unit._ Harry's rueful smile fades. _I—blacked out._

Merlin pauses in his typing; he nods slowly. _Can you recall anything that happened? What you were doing before we found you?_

Harry's eyes drift closed, eyelids fluttering as he sighs deeply. _I remember… being at the estate. Finishing—paperwork. After that_ —His eyes scrunch up and he shakes his head. _Nothing. I recall vaguely the both of you. But what was said or done during those, I have no idea._

Eggsy heart drops; but he should have known Harry wouldn't remember anything. Least of all, not remembering who he was. 

_It's been a long time._ Merlin sets the clipboard aside on a rolling tray holding the remains of Harry's breakfast, an empty mug of tea. 

_It has. I'm sorry._ He tries to catch Eggsy's eye again but Eggsy finds he can't look at him, not right now. _I am so very sorry._

When Eggsy doesn't say anything in response, Merlin says, _It's alright, Harry. It happens. We will just—have to be more aware. Take better care of yourself._

_Yes, well._ Harry clears his throat, laces his fingers together on his lap. Eggsy watches all of this from where he has his head slightly bowed, looking out the corner of his eye. _All’s well and good? I'd rather not stay here much longer, if I'm honest._

Merlin seems to hesitate; Eggsy can hear his shoes click against the tile. He sees Freya nodding but it's another beat before he says, _Yes, you are free to go._

When Harry stands, his ruined suit jacket draped neatly over his arm, Eggsy follows without thinking, Harry holding the door open for him as he catches up. 

They are standing at the end of the corridor, waiting for the elevator to come to their level when Eggsy manages to finally speak. 

_I should take you home. You need to rest._

_If it's all the same to you, darling, I’d rather not right now._

Eggsy can only nod as they step inside the lift and Harry calmly presses the floor button, wonderfully at ease, like what had just transpired—the black out, the conversation, the waking up and having hours gone from him—was merely an everyday occurrence, a minor issue easily dealt with. 

And despite all Eggsy wants to say, he doesn't say anything, standing quietly beside Harry, following with without a word as they walked the same corridor Eggsy had just come through not too long before. It was then, rather blearily, that Eggsy registers they are heading towards Harry's office.

He goes inside, regardless, thinking that maybe Harry just wanted to grab something before they went somewhere else. He deposits himself in a chair as Harry makes his way to his desk. Eggsy groans to himself; of course Harry would carry on the pretence of doing work. 

_I really don't think you should be doing work, it's—_ Eggsy pushes himself up from where he's sitting when instead of sitting down himself, starting in on paperwork, Harry takes out a nearly empty bottle of scotch and a glass. _Hey, what? No._ Eggsy makes a grab at the bottle, leaning forward across the desk to reach for it. _No, none of that; come on, after what just happened?_

Harry sighs, head tipping back. _Eggsy. I've such a headache, please._

_Harry, come on._ Eggsy puts his hand over top of Harry's, fingers lining up almost perfectly. He can't remember the last time they were this close—days, weeks maybe—but in the unforgiving clarity of day, Eggsy can see Harry's fingers, once nimble and golden, are pale and waxy, almost bloated. The greys at his temple, along his brow line, the vicious-looking scar made worse by his pallid skin, the dark purple bruises beneath puffy, red-rimmed eyes. Eggsy feels sick, sorry that he hasn't noticed until now. _Come on._

Harry pulls his hand and the bottle out from under Eggsy's grasp, takes up the glass and fills it. _I am a grown man, I can make my own choices,_ Harry says pointedly and takes a generous sip. 

_Sometimes, I wonder_ , Eggsy remarks coolly. 

_Come again?_ Harry, glass partially raised to his lips, gives Eggsy a withering stare. _Look, I've had a trying day._

How many times they've been here, in some way or another. 

Eggsy feels it, the instant slip to anger, rising hot and vicious against the back of his mouth. He can't swallow it down, it sticks in his chest, like barbs and thorns hooked under his skin. 

_You?_ He has to work to keep his voice low, wanting nothing more than to scream at him; knowing better than that, knowing it wouldn't make a difference if he did. _What about me? And Merlin? Fucking hell, Harry, whatever that was... it was scary. This—_ he gestures to the drink in Harry's hand but he's really gesturing to Harry, to them both, to the place they've found themselves in— _all of this needs to stop_.

_It's just part of this life,_ Harry says, staring down into his glass. _You'll learn in time._

_The fucks that supposed to mean?_ Frustrated, enraged at Harry's complacency, his never-ending loop of self-destruction, Eggsy makes another swipe at the glass; Harry steps back, just out of his reach, the contents of the glass splashing up, spilling over and down Harry's arm, staining the cuff and sleeve of his shirt. Harry curses, muttering under his breath; he sets the glass down, looking around for something to clean up with. _Harry, stop. Look at you, Jesus Christ. Stop fucking drinking!Come home and stop this._

Harry’s shoulders sag. _It helps._ He says this with such simple weariness, one arm lifted as he shuffles aimlessly about the room, opening drawers and cabinets. 

Eggsy steps forward to follow him, can't let Harry out of his sight. Like if he does, Harry will vanish again. _Like hell it does._

Harry slams a cabinet door shut, making Eggsy jump, rattling the pane of glass within it. _Do you not trust me?_ Harry asks and his voice is strained, livid, his next words said through clenched teeth. His hand is still on the cabinet handle, his knuckles shining with the spilled drink. _Trust me!_

Eggsy moves forward, presses his palm against the door. _No more secrets, I can't take any more secrets._ He shakes his head, takes a steadying breath, but he doesn't look away, despite his heart pounding in his head, the dizzying throb of it making him want to collapse. _You gotta talk to me._

Harry's expression goes decidedly composed, the slight snarl on his lips evening out, his weary eyes going blank. _We’re spies. Secrets is all we do._

_No._ Eggsy shakes his head vehemently. _No, you don't get to say that. Here, with me, you are just Harry! We’re doing this together, in case you forgot._

Harry has fixed him with a flinty stare, his body deliberately held, shoulders set at severe angle. 

_And you’re supposed to tell me…_ Eggsy continues, _tell me what the fuck’s got you so… so, fuck, I don’t even know._

_So what?_

Eggsy chews on his bottom lip, looking down at the floor. _I don't know._

_I have done this for years,_ Harry snarls. _Years! Longer than you have been alive. I have lived through far more than you could ever imagine and don't you dare fucking thinking that you will not end up in my spot one day. You will be standing here, wondering what the fucking point of it all is, and you will have some naive brat talking to you like they think they know anything about you. So, do not tell me what is and isn't helping._ Harry turns back to his desk, his empty glass, the dwindling bottle of scotch. _You know nothing._

A silence follows where there is no room for words. The sharp sting of humiliation, of defeat, has extinguished any remaining anger he had harboured; the unkind, impatient look on Harry's face only worsens the feeling. 

_That's what you think of me, then,_ Eggsy says. 

He shouldn't have said anything. He could handle it, why didn't he just let it be, this one good thing—

The voice in his head, telling him these things, sounds just like his mum, on the days when Dean would come home, raving mad and belligerent and reeking of smoke and beer. And when he realizes this, everything goes quiet in him, oddly blank. 

_I am merely explaining that there are things you don’t understand,_

_Well, what do you expect?_ Eggsy asks dismally. 

_I expect you to know your place!_

_My what?_ Eggsy’s hand drops from where it had rested on the door, his mouth agape. _My place?_

Harry visibly deflates, the once impeccably held body, staunch from years of discipline, seems to bend under its own weight. _Eggsy, I apologize, that came out—_

_Exactly as you meant it._ Eggsy rubs his hands down the front of his trousers, his palms clammy, nervous energy making his arms shake. 

(Did he see it coming all along? Could he have known he would end up here? He thinks he’s always looking back, waiting for a sign—did either of them know? The world still tilting back, righting itself, finding balance.)

He thinks Harry is reaching for him but the room has started to blur at the edges; he’s having a hard time focusing on anything else but the rolling sickness in his gut, the stickiness of his hands, of his wildly beating heart.

_Know my place, hey, Harry? Know your fucking place, you fucking prick._ But the severity of it loses it’s bite when it comes out on a strangled, choked-off noise and he’s backing out of the room before Harry can touch him, stumbling, feeling like he can't quite catch his breath. 

\- -

Eggsy leaves and Harry is not there to stop him. 

He fumbles with the laces on his shoes in the foyer of their— _Harry's_ —house, his hands shaking so terribly he has to stop, collect himself, dig his fingernails into his knees until he can calm down. He calls to JB and his voice breaks as he does, the leash gripped in his hand. The bag by his feet, the zipper he couldn't quite get closed all the way, the pile of his suits still on their hangers he had grabbed from the closet, his coat half zippered and his polished shoes gleaming up at him and JB’s leash wrapped around his fingers the only things reminding him: he is here and this is real. _This is happening to you._

There's a sort of giving way around his heart, a caving in that makes the next in-breath catch and it settles in. 

He will not be rid so easily of this, he knows. 

He shows up like this, bag over his shoulder and JB shivering at his side, on his mum’s doorstep. And bless her, she doesn't ask right away. Maybe she can see by the look on his face that he's not just ready for it just yet.

The kettle is whistling on the stove. Michelle is leaning across the island counter, looking contrite and a bit harried under the harsh lighting, a bit out of place amongst the waxed oak cabinets, stainless steel and recessed overhead lighting. He knew she still struggled with the new life he had given her, how long it had taken to convince her that she and Daisy could live somewhere better, somewhere safer, and he’d take care of it all for her: how hard it had been to untangle herself from Dean’s grasp, how she was still ridding herself of all the ways he had carved himself so intricately into their lives, how she would probably always be walking away from him, months after she had filed for the divorce, had moved out of the council housing for good (and she hadn’t wanted to, not for anything, because it had been _their_ home and she had wanted to refuse to let Dean sully that as well; had said, over and over, how she just wanted one thing left untouched by that horrid fucking man. And the realization that this was not possible for her was the final blow to Eggsy, to the dwindling fairy tale hope that if he saved the day, that if he was the hero, that things would all work out in the end).

The night he helped his mum move the last of the boxes into the house, had hung her curtains for her and stacked the dishes in the kitchen cupboards, and after Daisy had been sent to bed, she had told Eggsy as they shared a bottle of wine between them that, even though she knew Dean was absolutely scum and that what he had to done to her, to both of them, all those years made her sick… even though she knew all that, she still, in a way, loved him. Loved the idea of who he had been all those years ago, when they first men, she told Eggsy with her glassy eyed stare; _he was a good man once, Eggsy; no one’s born mean and cruel._

It had been Harry who convinced Eggsy to forgive her. In a way, he knew he had to, even if it was the most difficult thing he ever did. It wasn’t that it had gone on all those years, he never blamed her for it; he kind of understood, as he got older, why. And it’s not like his mum never tried to get rid of Dean: how many times they had come to screaming rows, things thrown against walls, his mum telling Dean to leave over and over, to get his sorry arse out of her house and never show his face here again. How many times Eggsy had believed that this time would be the last time. And how every time, Dean had wormed his way back into his mum’s good graces, someway or another. He understood that, he did.

He just didn’t understand how, after everything that had come to pass, that she could admit to him that she still loved Dean. How could he ever forgive her for that?

He had asked Harry that, sitting between Harry’s legs on the bed, his face resting in the crook of Harry’s neck, where he had been for the rest of that night after he left his mum’s, having showed up on Harry’s doorstep after midnight, half-pissed and so angry that he had only thrown himself into Harry’s embrace, let his weight fall into Harry and hoped that Harry would not let him fall. 

_To forgive,_ Harry had told him, stroking fingers through his hair, down his back, gentle motions that was lulling him to sleep, _does not mean forgetting the hurt they caused you. But you can grow from it, start over. Because you love her and she loves you._

Michelle has hands resting on top of Eggsy’s as he’s pulling at a tissue, ripping it apart. He wonders what Harry would have to say now, about forgiveness and forgetting and how easy it was to start over.

He tells her they had a fight. That he can't stay there, needs to cool off; it’s just for a few nights. He justifies with himself that he’s not lying to her, he’s just not telling her everything—and he justifies with himself that’s it's because it would destroy her if he did, that he can handle it himself just fine.

_You been fighting lots?_

He can only nod, chewing on his lip to keep from crying. 

_Sometimes it's for the best, Eggsy._ She’s rubs her thumb over his knuckles once before she pulls away to take the kettle off the stove. She busies herself with grabbing mugs, ripping open tea satchels, pouring the water. _Just a little break. Who knows, could do you both wonders._

(Yeah. Yeah, it's for the best, he tells himself. It's all for best. 

_It's all for the best._ He can almost believe it; he thinks of the anger on Harry’s face, then the dozy vacancy, the late nights that err on early mornings, the smell of stale scotch in warm breath, of the pendulum swing between happiness and not. _Know your place._

Yeah, he can believe it. That it’s for the best.

In the morning, it will hurt far worse.)

Michelle sets a mug of tea down in front of him, sits down beside him, looking unsure. _You have to take the good with the bad, love._

Eggsy digs his fists into his eyes, rubs at his cheeks, lets out a shuddering breath. _I don't know what to do._

_You love him?_

He has the ring sitting like a stone in his back pocket; he had grabbed it, in a blind fury and a rush, scared that Harry would find it if he left it behind, even though it was buried deep in the back of his drawer, wrapped up in a pair of socks. He doesn’t reach for it, he doesn’t have to; he knows the shape of it and it’s delicate weight, it’s metallic coolness, turned warm when he held it in his fist; but his heart rises like a lump in his throat, a faint reminder of the certainty he had felt once, all that time ago when he had stood on the Rue de Rennes, overtaken by an unknown exhilaration, a conviction of what his life could be if only he took the opportunity, initiative, to make it so. 

He didn't trust himself much anymore to decide if it was a truth that had slipped from his grasp or just a convincing lie he had once let himself believe.

_Yeah. I just don't know if it's enough._

_Oh, Eggsy._ Her hand comes up to her mouth before she sets it back down; in the low light, he sees the pale spot where she used to wear her old wedding ring. He remembers it, how she would sit at the small dining room table with a bowl of baking soda and vinegar, rubbing at the tarnished ring. _Sometimes, it ain't. But love ain't supposed to fix the problems. It just… gives you the strength to do it on your own._

Michelle makes up the bed for him in the spare room, turning down the blankets, airing out the room while he washes up, finds a place for his suits and rumpled clothes, gets JB settled into the new surroundings. There are some days where it’s more tense between them, the old hurts coming to surface and opening wide that gap that had grown between them when Eggsy’s windfall had changed them irrevocably.

_Thanks, Mum,_ Eggsy saysafter she’s fluffed up his pillow.

_Course, love._ She holds his face in her hands, kisses his cheeks. _You’re a good man, Eggsy. Don’t know how you did it, what with how I was—_

_Mum, no—_

_No, you listen, now. Your mum is giving you some wisdom and you best be listening to your elders._

Eggsy smiles faintly down at her.

_I know you’ll figure it out. You always have. You’ve always been—so strong. Strong enough for the both of us. Stronger than you ever should have been, a boy your age._ The mood has shifted in the room, her tone going melancholy, sorrowful. _Everyday… I am thankful you got us out. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay you for it._

Eggsy lays his hands on her upper arms, squeezes gently. _Not asking you to._

_I know that. It’s just—you deserve only good things, love. Only good things._ Her gaze has grown serious, searching, eyes flickering across Eggsy’s face. _Okay?_

Eggsy nods, her warm hands still pressed to his cheeks, the presence of her grounding, comforting.

_Okay._

\- -

Michelle is standing out in the back garden, hands on her hips, her hair pushed back underneath a floral bandana. Eggsy watches quietly from the back door as she surveys the mess before her, the overgrown weeds in the flower bed, the untrimmed trees with branches bent towards the ground, the dried vines stuck in a static climb up the side of a trellis attached to the garden wall. In the corner, behind a hedge that was left to grow unruly, there was the shallow indent of a pond, torn black tarpaulin held down by moss-covered rocks. Daisy and JB run circles around her legs, JB huffing as he tries to keep up with the shrieking, giggling toddler. 

_Looks a bit like a mess out here._

She glances back over her shoulder, already looking defeated. _Oh—morning, love. Yeah, seems so._

_Morning, Mum._ Eggsy steps out onto the patio, bare feet growing chilled on the paving stones. It had rained again some time in the night, the grass covered in a dewy sheen, all the dusty old brick and stone glittering under the low morning sun.

_There’s coffee, if you want._ Michelle gestures vaguely towards the house, already looking back at the overgrown yard before her. _Anything you want for breakfast?_

_I'm good, thanks._

_How’d you sleep?_

_Okay._ He hadn’t even really slept okay, tossing and turning most of the night, laying awake in the hazy dark, watching the pattern of light and shadow cross the ceiling as the sun came up over the rows of houses.

_Yeah, that’s the way of it, usually. Didn't sleep a wink myself. Not that I ever do much anymore._ She nudges him in the waist with her elbow when he comes to stand beside her. _How’s it this morning? You’ll be alright?_

_Yeah, Mum,_ Eggsy mumbles, nodding _. Just need a few days, like I said._

Michelle nods. _Any plans?_

_Dunno._ Eggsy shrugs, watches Daisy dump a handful of dirt on JB’s head, who doesn’t seem to notice or care. _Maybe go see Rox._ The dread of having to tell her makes him queasy for a moment, before he pushes it down, tries not to think too much on it.

_Well, you can give me a hand till then._ She blows out her cheeks in exasperation, the stray hairs around her face fluttering. _These weeds will do me in, I swear it._ She smiles up at Eggsy, her eyes shining. _Come along then, hang out with your ol’ mum for a bit. Might even be fun._

Eggsy loops an arm around her shoulder, places a kiss on top of her head. _I don’t think you’re old._

Sure, there were times when he wasn’t certain how he and his mum could move past the life they had endured together, how they could live a new one with so much of what had happened forever attached to them, always holding them on the back foot as they were given new chances, better opportunities. All the regrets and guilt they brought with them, how it shaped them and how they see each other, how it's something you can never truly forget. 

But then there were times when he had his hands buried in cold dirt, digging at gnarled roots, his mum laughing about some bad joke he’s made, and it all feels so normal that he thinks he can’t be blamed for pretending, even if it’s just for a morning, that they didn’t have to work so hard to get here, that they didn’t have to suffer so much just to get to the good parts of their lives.

\- -

Arthur is tentative, awkward when it comes to polite small talk, but he's to the point. Eggsy appreciates that bit of unintended kindness but he loathes the man for having to talk about this at all. 

It's Arthur who asked him here, set up an official appointment with him. Things of a personal nature to discuss, is what he was told when he prodded after Merlin for details; Eggsy had blanched and Merlin had smiled weakly. An attempt at sympathy, Eggsy thinks. It had just made him look older than he was. 

Mission after mission, it's what Eggsy does to keep himself alert, distracted: the one thing he's actually found that he’s good at, what he throws himself bodily into it, because it demands all of him and he realizes he’s willing to give it. It's all he has: that and his mum and Daisy at the end of the day, Roxy and her rooftop garden and her neglected plants, probably now turning withered and grey from the oncoming cold. Sometimes, he has Kingsman, what it offers in its growing familiarity and brutal presence, the meandering halls of the estate and rooms rich dark woods and waxed marble floors. Though, it feels false sometimes, as if he’s stolen it. He doesn't really have Kingsman because, somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry had it first. 

He feels anxious, untethered, not knowing where to land, or how to even if he could, if he were ever to stop. So, he keeps going. 

When Arthur calls him into the office, Eggsy doesn’t sit. Arthur doesn’t offer him a chair. So, Eggsy stands with his feet slightly apart, his hands folded in front of him, staring resolutely at the man behind the desk.

_I have never approved of interoffice relationships. But that is a personal view._

_Yes, sir._

_But I approve of this even less._

Eggsy blinks at him. _Sir?_

_It will not affect your abilities to complete missions, will it?_

He feels as if he has set foot on every part of the earth and he can't stop now, pushed even further on, something dragging him forward on weary feet, like tugging him along on strings, and he has to follow. Something pushing him back out and away, setting him off again when he touches down on London soil and feels that gaping chasm in his chest widen, inch by inch. 

_No, sir. It won't._

_Good. I don't need field agents letting personal issues getting in the way of their better judgement._

In Egypt, Eggsy lays waste to a pile of insurgents in the baking heat before he is sent off to North Korea, tracking the sloppy trail of an English diplomat selling confidential information.

_That will be all, Gawain._

_Yes, sir._

He hauls himself through the barren northern tundra of Russia to take down a homegrown terrorist cell, then detours to Austria, cozying up to ambassadors and businessmen at a glittering winter gala, some white-tie affair brimming with endless flutes of champagne that he doesn’t drink, someone brushing their finger along the inside of his wrist, an unheard whisper in his ear, leaves him unsettled the rest of the night. He leaves once he’s planted the bug on his mark, feeling like he doesn’t quite fit into his own skin, tugging at the bow tie at his neck as soon as he is outside.

_Excuse me, sir—have you talked to Har—Galahad? About this._

He doesn't see home or a soft bed or a familiar, kind face for nearly three weeks. He doesn't notice this until his mum calls, trying so hard to hide her disappointment and her concern, and asks when he will be home. 

_Yes, I have._

He and Harry don’t cross paths in HQ. They don't meet on the sidewalk of Savile Row. Their time slots for meetings and appointments and sessions with training never overlap. 

_What did he say?_

Arthur gives him an odd look, like he doesn’t quite understand why Eggsy is asking him this. _Much the same as you, Gawain. Dismissed._

Harry is no longer waiting for him at the bullet train, staring out across the hangar, hands folded neatly behind his back. He's no longer standing there at the end of the day, always patient with Eggsy’s last minute errands, the only constant Eggsy could rely on. The only thing he wanted to ever rely on. Harry is no longer greeting him with his tired, affectionate smile that never failed to make Eggsy grin wide with a rush of love, ready to wrap an arm around him when Eggsy finally catches up to him, Harry leaning down to press a kiss just above his ear, humming softly against his hair, telling him, _come, darling, let's go home_.

\- - 

All of their moments had been stolen, taken in passing, and they all seemed to lack, had no worth, when he tries to parse through the months they had been together. Wondering if it meant anything at all, in the end, and he can't see how it ever held much weight when he thinks back on it. 

He drags Roxy out to the gym, where they spar until his muscles are protesting and sore, every breath a ragged tear burning his sides, his body covered in sweat and he collapses on the gym mats, the buzzing need pulling from him like a tide. But it always comes back in, like a room filled over with water, and he can’t find where it's coming from, how to make it stop, any place to find air. 

He spends hours down in the gun range, emptying clip and after clip into the paper targets until his ears popped with the ringing and his hands went numb and Wes has to tell him to go home with a concerned look and stern shove out the door. 

He finishes the backlog of reports piling up on his desk and he goes on ten kilometre runs around the estate tracks until he's winded and he asks Percival to help him practice his Russian just for something to do and he sits in the hangar on the hood of one of the cars, with perplexed mechanics watching over him as he bends over his laptop, researching his next mission, most of them not entirely sure what to make of him being there, but not entirely sure how to ask him to leave.

Nearing the end of December, when the shop windows he passes on his way home are lit with icicle lights and trimmed with greenery, dulcet tones of the same old Christmas carols seem to follow him everywhere he goes, he’s back at home more. He moved around his mum’s flat, trying to make himself small and unobtrusive, reads books to Daisy when she asks, letting her pile toys on top of him while he stares at the ceiling, colour mindlessly on his arm, Michelle tutting them both. He takes Daisy to daycare in the mornings, hangs her coat and folds her scarf and hat in practiced routine, fixes her shoes so they look nice, and he does it every time because she runs the entire way and the laces always come loose. And he always stares down at them, distressed by how the laces are always lopsided, how they can never stay flat. He takes the long way home, stops by the corner shop, buys a pack of smokes, sits at a park bench for awhile because he's always tired in the mornings these days, tapping the pack against his knee. He gets home and adds them to the growing heap, all unopened because he's _quitting_ , and gets ready for work, hoping there is a new, fresh dossier waiting for him when he gets there. 

He takes a misstep in Kazakhstan that lands him in the infirmary with a sprained wrist and a concussion that compels Freya to keep him overnight, despite his vehement protesting, his reassurance that he's perfectly fine. He falls asleep in the half-lit room, feeling irritated and restless; he wakes up feeling ill and aware of how alone he is. It's a minor injury in the end and he's written off with a clean bill of health, a pack of paracetamols for the wrist, and told to go home for forty-eight hours of mandated rest. He has half a mind to march to Arthur’s office, demand a recon mission in Switzerland, something simple, boring, easy—but _something_. Instead, he's does as he's told, calls a car and goes home. 

It's not enough, it's not near enough to distract him. 

\- -

Merlin comes to him one morning, a week before Christmas, saying Arthur wants to speak with him. Another scheduled appointment; Arthur will not see his agents otherwise. Eggsy sighs and stands and muses wryly that he hopes it's not another discussion about his love life, or lack thereof. Merlin doesn't say anything, just gives Eggsy a put off look, and Eggsy mumbles a clumsy apology.

They walk the rest of the way in unfriendly silence. 

Arthur is sitting at his desk, hands spread across neatly placed requisition forms and reports, his pen scratching across the paper exorbitantly loud in the room. Merlin finds his place in the corner of the room, already busying himself with whatever new statement or report he is reading on his tablet, and Eggsy is left to stand and wait.

_You’ve yet to do a deep undercover mission, Gawain_ , Arthur states after a minute of not even acknowledging Eggsy’s presence, briefly looking up from his work. 

_Yes, sir._

_You seem a good candidate for this, then._ Arthur motions to Merlin, who takes a dossier from the corner of the desk and hands it to Eggsy. _Human trafficking ring operating out of Thailand. We have tracked their movements into Russia, Eastern Europe, and even into Britain. They seem to based out of Pattaya. We know of a brothel in the red light district and possibly a fleet of fishing boats, where they transport migrants into other countries and also indenture them to work._

Eggsy is looking idly at the file, scanning over the basic information: possible names and connections, gathered tidbits of information, grainy print-outs of pictures pulled from what seems like low grade security systems. 

_We have reason to believe this is all funded by the British consulate currently residing in Thailand. Consul-General Thomas Perry._ Arthur hands him another file, now containing information on said man. Eggsy takes the file but doesn't open it. _He has been in Thailand since V-Day._

Eggsy nods once. 

_You have—_ Arthur flutters his hands across his papers, a nervous tic, clearing his throat— _a criminal record, Gawain._

Eggsy looks to Merlin—he had been assured that his past would not be an issue, would never be used against him. But Merlin looks relatively unbothered, gives Eggsy a slight nod of his head. 

_Yeah._ Eggsy clears his throat. _Yes, sir._

_A few charges of, uh—_ the hands again, moving— _solicitation._

The back of Eggsy’s mouth tingles, his cheeks growing hot; he looks steadfastly at the file when he notices Merlin looking back at him with an unreadable expression, fingers halted over his tablet, waiting.

_I do_ , Eggsy confirms. 

Arthur presses his palms together, rests them on desk. _Sometimes, a more… personal connection to the mission is beneficial._

Eggsy closes the file. _More personal?_

Merlin interjects, _You don’t have to take it, Gawain._

Arthur purses his lips and looks back down to his paper, mindlessly straightening them. _No, you do not. But it is being offered to you first._

_How long’s it for?_

_We are anticipating at least five, maybe, six months._

_And my objective?_

_Infiltrate the operation, rise through the ranks, gain their trust and gather as much information as we can so we can charge the Consul-General and take this operation down from the inside. You are not to engage unless imperative. This is a reconnaissance mission, Gawain, first and foremost._

He thinks of Harry. He thinks of him, sitting at home in his office with the door locked and a nearly empty bottle of scotch; and he thinks of all the miles that would be between them. Being able to land, not softly, not without bruising—but just to land at all. 

_Yeah, alright,_ Eggsy agrees, tucking the files underneath his arm _. I’ll take it._

\- -

Gwen has a miniature ceramic Christmas tree on the corner of her desk, glittering snow painted on, real bulbs lit up in red, yellow, purple, orange. He hasn't been able to look away from it since he first set eyes on it.

_You are being sent on your first undercover mission. Congratulations._

_Lucky me._

_Arthur has asked for a full work-up of your current mental state before you are cleared for this mission._ The usual file is gone today; Gwen has a blank form in front of her, filling it out. An official clearance for him to take this mission. _We will need to discuss how your past traumas may affect how you approach this mission._

Eggsy raises his eyebrows, looking up from the twinkling Christmas tree to regard her fully. _You mean me being a rentboy._

_Sex work, Eggsy,_ Gwen corrects him. 

_Not what we called it._

_I will refer to it as sex work,_ Gwen states, pausing in her writing to tilt her head and then continue on _. You can refer to it how you please._

Eggsy shifts in his chair, sucking on his teeth before telling her, _If you're thinking that I was forced to do it—it wasn't like that. It was my choice. It was always my choice._

Gwen stops her writing, folds her hands together. _Okay, Eggsy. Do you want to tell me why you made that choice?_

It continues on like this, Gwen prompting bits of information from him, watching him closely whenever he paused to recall. 

How long? Just over a year. He didn't count the days. 

How many arrests? Two warnings, two arrests. One night in the nick for it, sent off with a slap on the wrists. Wasn’t his first mugshot, either. 

Why did you stop? Didn't need to do it anymore. Dean got a job, money was steady for awhile. Mum got pregnant. Didn't trust Dean around her, not when she had the baby. 

Did anything ever happen that may cause him distress during the mission?

Eggsy doesn't quite look directly at Gwen, though he keeps her in his sight. _You mean, did any of them ever hurt me?_

_Yes._

He thinks of those nights he spent loiteringon some dim street corner off Smith Street, leaning against barred windows and spray painted shop fronts with his hands in his pockets, hip cocked out, running a finger across his bottom lip when a car slowed down as it drove by; the cheap jeans slung low across his hips, the white t-shirt a size too small so when he’d stretch back, it would ride up, drawing the eye of any curious onlooker. The dark alleyways reeking of garbage and piss, thick sweaty fingers clutching at his hips, tangled in his hair, nails scraping along his scalp. Slipping as he shifted, made himself more open, moaning when it was called for, easier to take. 

He knew how to pick the right ones, when they came sliding around corners, acting like they didn't know how they got to this part of the city: usually drunk, sure, but harmless. He could read them across the street in the dark without ever letting on that he saw them. If he misjudged, he could fight them off. Heel of his hand to the nose, twisting the stubby fingers backwards, a sneaker to the shin before he took off down the alley, scaling a wall and gone before they could get to their feet. 

He could protect himself and most nights, he'd come home with bruises in the places they were meant to be, jacket pocket stuffed with rolled notes. So, no, never him. The men who came to him for what he was willing to offer never did anything to him because he never let them get that far.

The other boys, though—he could hear them, voices loud and panicked, down the back alleys when he was on his knees, when he had his face shoved up against a brick wall, meaty hand gripping tight to his hair; saw them stumbling out of dark cars with blooming bruises and cut lips and jittery hands to join the scattered group pacing aimlessly on the street corner; listen to them as they talked about it in hopes that someone would tell them it wouldn't happen again and then didn't bring it up after the first silence that followed when they realized everyone had it the same, and it’s not that no one cared. They just had to think of themselves first.

He tried to look after them, to teach them how to protect themselves, read people, fight if it came to it. But they were desperate, just like him, and he knows now how messy, careless, desperation can make a person. 

_No._ He shakes his head, folding his arms across his chest, tucking his clenched fists into his elbows. _Not really._

_I have to be certain._

_I'm fine with it. I've—_ lived through worse. _If I couldn't deal with it, I wouldn't be here. I wouldn't’ve said yes._

There’s a brief moment when Eggsy thinks she does not believe him.

Gwen clears him for the mission, though; Arthur even stands from his seat the table above the Savile Row shop to shake Eggsy’s hand when he hands over the file and access code for the mission database. It’s here with the late winter sun marking patterns across the floor that things seem to finally settle for him. His future marked and laid out before him.

Strange, he thinks, the comfort and relief he finds in that.

\- -

Merlin has his hand outstretched to Eggsy. In any other circumstance, Eggsy would believe it's a peace offering, if it wasn't for what lay in the palm of Merlin’s hand. A small device, barely bigger than his thumbnail, made of thin plastic with a miniature microchip embedded in the center.

Eggsy looks from the implant to Merlin, shaking his head. _You know, no offence to your work, but I ain't real keen on putting that thing in me. Considering the last time I saw one of them things, it blew up people’s heads._

Merlin frowns but doesn’t move. _The glasses are a liability. But we still need recordings of their interactions._

_You don't trust my word on it?_

This seems to exhaust Merlin, so he closes his fingers over the implant and drops his hand with a disgruntled sigh. _Of course we do. But if we are passing this onto the proper authorities then we need to take the proper steps._

Eggsy watches Merlin turn on his heel, walk back to his work table. He deposits the implant in a clear plastic container, setting it atop a pile of papers, and leans forward, balancing his fingertips on the table, to regard Eggsy more thoroughly.

_It must be done for you to take this mission or Arthur will not approve it._

_Merlin, do you trust Arthur?_ It’s almost as if Eggsy blurts it out, regretting it as soon as he says it.

_It’s my job to serve Arthur,_ Merlin answers slowly, his stare blank and unwavering, _whoever may hold the title._

_That's not what I asked._

Without preamble, Merlin drops to the chair behind him with a thump, all sense of rigidity and professional slipping from him as he sinks further into the chair. He rubs at his face, pushing his glasses up his forehead. _Are you asking if I trust him as Merlin or if I trust him as myself?_ When Eggsy shrugs, Merlin sighs again and he says, _I don't have the luxury of differentiating the two_.

_Is it really that hard for you to give me a straight answer? On—I dunno, anything, really?_

Merlin gives him a perplexed look, as if he is gauging whether he should be offended or defend himself, before it smooths into ambivalence. _If you don't feel comfortable with this, you can hand the mission over to another agent. Tristan is very knowledgeable in undercover operatives—_

Eggsy has felt it for some time now, anytime him and Merlin are left alone together for more than perfunctory conversations regarding missing requisition forms or some menial development in H&R: this underlying tension that dictates all their interactions as they straddle the line between professional and personal. The indifference had turned into near hostility since the night they found Harry at Clapham Common.

_Nah._ Eggsy tips his head to the side, gazes about the room. _It'll be good for me, I think. Change of scenery._

_Okay._ Merlin rises from the chair, taking up the container with the chip. _Might as well go to medical now, get this done with._

They take the short walk from Merlin’s work area to the medical ward. Merlin rolls the container between his fingers, the chip inside clicking against the plastic walls. 

_I apologize._ Merlin glances over at Eggsy as they walk. _For the way Arthur presented the mission._

_What, cause I used to sell my arse for a pound on the street corner?_

Merlin looks horrendously uncomfortable, his gaze flickering away, his mouth twisting briefly in a grimace. 

_What's done is done, yeah?_ Eggsy huffs. _Water under the bridge and whatever._

But there's a new layer to Merlin's conflicted expression, an uncertainty, like he doesn't quite believe Eggsy; it’s not that Eggsy feels sorry for Merlin’s discomfort but he feels partially responsible for it. 

_I chose to do it. Maybe not the best choice but… well, I didn’t have much choice, is the point._ Eggsy stops in front of the double doors, hand resting on handlebar. He’s not justifying it to himself, he has never felt like he needed to: but he can’t help the instinctive need to make Merlin understand that this didn’t define him. That he wasn’t going to let it. _Couldn’t get a job and we needed the money. I ain’t ashamed of it, you know._

_I didn’t mean to imply you are._

_You looked it, though,_ Eggsy points out; at least Merlin has the decency to look contrite. _It’s just—_ Eggsy puts his hands out, like surrender or explanation, _—part of it all, yeah? Another in the long line of shit mistakes I made. It is what it is._

Merlin takes a moment before he nods, leading the way through the doors. It’s another short walk to the designated room—Eggsy had been here once before, shortly after he was knighted, to have a tracker implanted in his neck. 

_Does Harry know?_ Merlin says it so quietly, at first Eggsy isn’t even sure if he asked it. But Merlin is fussing with the tools on the tray beside him, spinning that container between his fingers once again as he focuses on rearranging things, his back slightly turn to Eggsy.

_He read my file, didn’t he? Before he got me out of Holborn. Knew enough about me._ Eggsy shrugs. _I think he knows. He’s never said._ He stands at the threshold into the room Merlin has entered, held back by the misgiving he has in Merlin: the one man who holds his life in his hands. _Never really came up._

\- -

Eggsy is standing at the window of an east facing room, looking out over the pond that he had spent countless hours watching from Gwen’s office. The swans were gone, the weather too cold for them nearly a month ago; Eggsy didn’t bother to ask where they had been taken, if they were coming back in the spring. He wouldn’t be here for it anyway.

The sound of a laptop clicking closed makes him turn to the other man sitting behind a small work desk, surrounded by books and empty tea mugs and a plate carrying the burnt crusts from toast.

_Sorry about that, just had to finish up something there._ Bors grins up at him, clasping his hands together. _Crash course in Thai, is it? Well, this should be an interesting experience._

Bors was unbearably chatty, whip smart, decisive and analytical, with an unparalleled memory that borderlined frightening. Harry had mentioned how the man got on his nerves, his amicable nature veering dangerously towards nosy; on more than a few occasions, Harry had to make small talk with the pretty much starry-eyed Bors who never seemed to be out of questions. Eggsy liked him well enough. Sure, he had that boarding school prep wafting about him that made Eggsy's skin crawl, that often set his teeth on edge, but he knew everyone's name in HQ within his first week there, memorized birthdays and names of spouses and kids and pets. He always asked after JB when they managed two minutes of time together outside the debrief room to finally meet. 

He had been Roxy’s recruit when Bors had retired a month after V-Day, talking of a place in the Canary Islands before he had even handed in his resignation, Eggsy surprised that agents could actually retire—and being informed it was quite common; a passing acquaintance she had known from her social group, flying the Bors trials with what could be deemed flying colours. He still had trouble with the kick-back on his firearm, was a little too trigger-happy with the IEDs, but Eggsy couldn’t fault him for that: Eggsy still struggled with strategy and tactics given to him by logistics, opting for sheer brute force most of the time.

Eggsy takes the chair across from Bors when he gestures for Eggsy to sit. _Thanks for helping me out, Bors._

Bors waves a dismissive hand. _Don’t mention it. I haven’t had much reason to speak it the last few months, which is a shame. Such a lovely language, the tonal aspect may be hard to grasp at the beginning but I think you will catch on quick._ There’s a smile on his face, unimposing and without direction or purpose; like he genuinely is looking forward to this. Eggsy really does find it almost hard to believe. _It’ll be a nice refresher for me as well. Speaking of refreshers—want anything? Water, tea, coffee?_

Eggsy can’t help smiling back, the chatty behaviour and levity almost infectious. _I’m fine, thanks._

Bors stands, going over to the sideboard tucked in beside a row of bookshelves filled to the brim with all sorts of paperback and leather bound books, plugging in an electric kettle, setting out a fresh mug and a box of tea.

_Sorry to hear about you and Galahad._ Bors looks back at Eggsy, his expression pinched but curious. _If it's not out of my place to say—just rather the talk of the town, it is._

Eggsy looks down to his hands folded in his laps. _Huh—yeah, guess it would be._

Bors looks like he wants to ask something and Eggsy’s sure it’s the same thing Merlin and Roxy and Gwen had tried to ask, worked their way around with misdirected questions: was he leaving now because of Harry?

_Well, these things always have a way of working out in the end, don’t they?_ Bors says a bit hurriedly. _Maybe once Galahad starts his re-entry exams._

Eggsy looks up at Bors, shakes his head. _He already did them. He didn’t pass… something about his eyesight still. He’s going up again in a month or two._

Bors blinks in surprise, eyebrows shooting up. _That’s—_ He takes a small sip of the water he had poured for himself, waiting for the kettle to boil. _Oh, well._

_What?_ There’s a pinching feeling in the pit of his stomach, a knot ripped tight, twisting around in his chest.

_It’s just—it's not not what I heard._ Bors seems remiss to go on, setting his glass down, fiddling with some more papers on his desk. He seems less confident in his assertion than he did a minute ago. _Lamorak was slotted to help him out but Galahad said he was taking extended medical leave. They never even started._ He sighs, looking up at Eggsy with a sympathetic downturn of his mouth. _I—thought you knew. I’m sorry._

Eggsy nods a few times. His hands have started to ache from where he’s twisting his fingers together, digging his nails into the spaces between his knuckles.

_Gawain?_

_No, yeah. Yeah. It's fine._

Bors gives Eggsy a smile that he can’t seem to return. _Shall we get started? You leave in a few days, don’t you? Lots to get to._

\- -

It’s not the best timing but he tells Michelle after dinner on Christmas Eve, sharing a bottle of brandy he picked up on his way back from the shop, that he’s going to be gone. 

She finishes filling her glass, moves to Eggsy’s; her eyes are a little glazed, heavy lidded, but her hands are steady. _How long this time?_

_Six months. Maybe more._ He takes a slow drink, stalling. _I won’t be able to call you._

She sits back in her seat, one leg crossed over her knee, and takes a sip of the brandy. She doesn’t look at Eggsy.

She doesn’t ask many questions about what he does. When he revealed to her the truth of it—where he had disappeared to during training, who he was now, and, the hardest part, what had happened to his dad all those years ago—she taken a moment to absorb what Eggsy had said and then asked him to not tell her the details ( _Seems easier now to live with not knowing what happened to your dad—I don’t think I can handle it, love_ ) and to stay safe.

Then, she asked if he was happy. If this is what he wanted.

He said it was.

_Does this gotta do with Harry?_

He feels he can't completely lie to her, that he has to tell someone, even if it's only part of it. _I need—a break, yeah. But I wouldn't be going if I didn’t think I could do it._

Michelle sets down her glass, leans forward. She places a warm hand on the side of Eggsy’s face, smiles faintly at him. There was something in her eyes that indicated that she saw him not as he was, but the child he had once been; live-wire fidgeting and brash and unafraid. Sometimes, he thinks he still is. 

_I guess I just have to trust you, don’t I?_

He covers her hand with his own. _I’m sorry, mum._

_Just stay safe._

_I know._

After he had stowed the brandy in the liquor cabinet, his mom taking the glasses to rinse out in the sink, he kisses her cheeks and holds her close, arms wrapped tight around her shoulders. When Michelle goes into her room for the night, Eggsy sneaks into Daisy’s, careful not to open the door too wide and step around the squeaky floorboard. He sits down on his knees by the side of her bed, watching her sleep soundly, her mouth quivering and eyes fluttering, dreaming.

For the first time since taking the mission, sitting in the hushed darkness of his mother’s home and watching Daisy sleep, he’s gripped with the terrifying reality of what could happen if he does not come back, of who he will ultimately leave behind. 


	6. Chapter 6

Three days after Christmas, he takes a packed duffel of his most basic needs and leaves without waking his mum to say goodbye. 

His given cover is Metropolitan undercover detective Gary Carmichael; that's what his contact believes his name to be, and those within the ring believe he is just a new lackey, brought in by his contact, to order around. The closer he gets to the centre, the lesser he becomes of who he really is—so he’s flying economy class to Pattaya from Heathrow, a carry-on filled with button up shirts and jeans, a book to read, toothbrush and nail clippers.

Merlin said he could not bring any personal items, anything to identify him by, that he is to remain uninteresting and unidentifiable, so boring and average that eyes pass over him without a second thought. Personal affects compromise his cover, he knows this. In his back pocket, he has a folded drawing Daisy made for him the morning before he left; inside the creases of the paper rests the ring he had been carrying with him for months.

_Don't even get to bring my own guns,_ Eggsy gripes from the backseat of the taxi, rubbing at the newly healed scar where the recording implant had been inserted behind his ear.

_Stop touching it,_ Merlin chastises him over the comms, _you'll have to make due with what your contact gets you._ No one could escort him to the airport that morning and it’s not like he wanted anyone to. He left his glasses behind with Andrew at the front desk, turned on the comm lines in the taxi and let Merlin brief him one more time before he stepped out, leaving London far behind.

_Still don't know why I can't take the jet._ Eggsy drops his head back against the seat, rolls it to the side to watch Westminster Palace blur by. _Gonna be stuck there for six months. Could do with a little bit of luxury before hand._

Merlin makes a disapproving noise. _You have a cover to maintain._

He's a man with an alias with an alias. For the next six months, he will go by Gary. Through a series of small, exacting degrees, he will no longer be the person most people know him as. It's oddly freeing, to shed some part of him and walk away from it. 

_Remember your first time and date of contact. You have the number memorized?_

New number each time, the line only goes live for that slotted time. The number erased after Merlin tells him the next one. His only contact to anyone else. Once a month. _Yeah,_ Eggsy confirms. 

_Only burner phones,_ Merlin reminds him. _Destroy it as soon as the conversation is over._

_I know, Merlin._

_If we don’t hear from you within the hour of the stated time, we will be sending in an extraction team._

Eggsy swallows around the lump in his throat, feeling jumpy, his hands going to his pockets for a smoke and finding none. He could be found out the minute he lands; he could be held up in some dank hidden cell for weeks, forgotten or tortured, before Kingsman ever knows. He could be dead before he even has the chance to defend himself. And no one would be the wiser for a month, until he didn’t make that phonecall. How fast everything could go wrong and he would have nothing, no one, to come to his aid.

The level of trust he must have in them—Arthur and Merlin and everyone—the level of faith they must have in him… it makes him uneasy.

_This is my stop,_ Eggsy says when the taxi pulls up to the entrance to Heathrow, rolling to a stop before a pedestrian crossing. 

_Good luck, Gawain._

_Thanks._ And he shuts off the comm link, the once familiar sound of Merlin’s voice fading from him.

A bored security agent takes the nail clippers from his carry-on at security, dropping it with a clink into a plastic bin behind the conveyor belt. He has to set the drawing and the ring in a tray, watch them go through a scanner, quickly shoving them back into his pocket when the tray is sent down the rollers and he's freed to go. 

He spends eleven long hours and twenty-six minutes in the air, two frantic layovers drinking cups of bitter coffee and chewing half-heartedly on overpriced muffins, checking his watch and taking the ring out from his back pocket to turn between his fingers. His legs ache when he stands in his seat on his last flight into Utapao, popping his shoulders when he gets past the departure area, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He can’t stifle the yawn that comes, rubbing at the grit in his eyes. He can already smell the ocean, the heat of the day still lingering in the air, adding to the thin layer of sweat already on his skin.

Daniel Jordan— _just Danny, mate,_ he tells him later _—_ is waiting for him under the swaying palm trees in front of the airport, a spotlight of overhead lights flickering on in the approaching dusk that make him look smaller, harsher, half covered in shadows. He’s wearing purple-tinted aviators and a woven grass hat, rolling a toothpick between his teeth when Eggsy spots him, wary to approach him just yet; assessing him first. Danny beams at him when he sees Eggsy and shakes his hand with a grip that makes the tips of Eggsy's fingers go numb, asking him about his flight, complaining about the heat, clapping Eggsy on the back and leading him easily through the milling crowds of confused arriving tourists and sunburnt weary travellers. 

The drive from Utapao to Pattaya is filled with Danny’s voice over scratchy radio background noise: he tells Eggsy he is originally from Adelaide, Australia; when he lifts his hat off to scratch his head, he reveals dark tanned skin and dirty blonde hair curling in waves over his shoulders, made lighter resting against the sweat-sheen of his dusky shoulders. He talks constantly, non-stop so even if Eggsy wanted to take part in the conversation, he couldn't get a word in edgewise, telling Eggsy about his work as an independent migrant broker, how he started it all when he visited Thailand after graduating high school and how his honest work turned into accidental dishonest work (said with a wink, like he’s sure Eggsy understands that slippery slope of good intentions; Eggsy wants to hate his smarmy grin and nonchalance but he can’t quite muster the willpower to). Years of that, running under the radar, until Interpol came to him because he was the best out there— _oh, it’s not a reputation you want, mate, but it was this or spend the rest of my days banging a tin cup against the bars in a jail cell._

Danny says he's been doing this for so long, he's not sure who's side he's on anymore. He’s laughing while he says this and Eggsy finds himself smiling back even though he doesn't find it funny like Danny does, not at all, wondering how someone can lose themselves like that. Mostly, it’s just sad—almost pathetic.

Eggsy comes to find that Danny has a sweet-tooth for hard candies and keeps them in the ashtray of his Toyota Camry; he says he's trying to quit smoking. Eggsy says he is, too. Danny gives him a candy, a sour lemon one that cuts the roof of his mouth when he sucks on it too hard. 

Pattaya is brimming with a electric, thrumming liveliness that seems to permeate the whole city. It's mesmerizing, the bright white beaches and bright white houses and reflection of hundreds of neon lights stretching across the dashboard, distorted over the windshield: like London in some ways, the constant push of people and the noise and lights that never fully went out—and yet so incredibly different, it’s hard to believe they exist at the same span of time, in the same world. Danny seems unmoved, swerving effortlessly past roadside markets and milling pedestrians, lost-looking tourists with cameras or folded maps or looking furtively as if waiting for admittance to some seedy underbelly like it required a password. Danny talks with his hands fanning out on the steering wheel, his woven hat pushed low on his forehead, as Eggsy stares out his window, a mixture of wonder and exhaustion keeping his forehead pressed against the glass.

He shows Eggsy to his motel room, this dingy place with panelled walls and shiny pastel bed coverings. Dom smirks and shrugs, apologetic. _Gotta make it look legit, eh, mate?_

_Right_ , Eggsy says, dropping his bag to the floor, looking around the room. He can hear the person in the next room over, their television turned up to a loud inaudible muffle, feet thumping across the floor as they crossed the room.

Dom claps his hands together. _About time we get you nicely acquainted with Walking Street—what'd you say?_

This, he was dreading. But it had to happen so Eggsy shrugs. _Yeah, sure._

_Then what are we waiting for?_ Dom drapes an arm around Eggsy's shoulders, the smell of sugar on his breath, the tinted glasses still covering his eyes. 

It's late in the night as they approach Pattaya Beach, the sound of music drifting towards them, the neon lights emitting a fuzzy glow into the navy sky. Eggsy can understand, in an objective way, the appeal that this place has. Stepping directly onto Walking Street is like being transported somewhere else: the hazy neon lights casting a myriad of colours across the crowded streets, the tourists standing in uncoordinated groups watching the girls in high heels and miniskirts flirt with them, giggling and crooking their fingers, motioning for them to follow. And he wants to laugh, at Merlin and Gwen’s concern for him to take this mission: it’s not at all like anything he had experienced. 

Eggsy watches with interest the men who slide the women questioning glances, the signs denoting Miss Love’s Massage Palace and Lucky Fingers enticing people to step inside, the slim boys sat on stools giving him coy looks; trying to read the place like he was trained to read a room, but it’s overwhelming and he can’t get a sense of the place besides red neon glittering chaos.

Dom leads him into a packed little bar, lit from floor to ceiling in red fluorescent, and orders two bottles of what turns out to be some awful beer from the bartender. 

_And when's my first day on the job?_

_Tomorrow_. Dom turns back to Eggsy with a grin, clinks his bottle against Eggsy's. _So, drink up. Before drinking in places like this makes you hate yourself._

Danny spends the remainder of the night watching a group of girls dancing on a catwalk across the bar, eyes glassed over and staring down the middle distance, fingers covering his mouth. Eggsy tries to watch for a few minutes, just to seem like he’s meant to be here, but something about the way the girls look, their faces blank and movements stilted as they dance to a near-deafening beat, makes his stomach churn.

Eggsy doesn't finish his beer but he pays their tab anyway.

Back in his room, he stumbles around in the half-dark, the only light from the faded back-lit sign and orange glow of the street lights through the lace curtains. Standing in the bathroom, the fluorescent bulb buzzing above him, he sees the desk shoved up against the wall in the mirror's reflection, the small calendar on a stand tucked up in the corner. He notices the date hasn't moved past June of last year. He walks out of the bathroom, the light still on and leading his way across the tramped down carpet, and flips back to January, tears all the pages off to June and folds them neatly into his pocket, along with the ring and Daisy's picture. 

\- -

He takes out January and pins it to his wall the next morning. He smooths the creases on Daisy’s drawing, tacks it to the wall with some chewing gum beside the calendar.

He meets the owner of Jasmine’s Paradise later that day, a man going by Decha, in the late afternoon when they are sitting around a large table talking, blue cigarette smoke hanging around them, plates of half-eaten food filling every available space of the table, ashtrays balanced precariously on the chipped Formica corners. They go to other brothels, too—Danny has to maintain his cover, working multiple venues at once. But Jasmine’s Paradise, with the lotus flowers painted around the entrance and the smell of incense wafting over him on the street, is where Eggsy’s prime objective lies.

Gary Carmichael introduces himself, shakes hands with men and a few women who look aloof, severe, uninterested in him as a person but cautious as a liability. Danny is the loudest in the room everywhere they go, his laughter ending on a croak, the sound of _another bottle, mate_ being called out always seeming to carry over the music. Eggsy memorizes the names of everyone he meets, the faces that go with them. He stays to the front half of the building, where the girls brush past him and the numbing bass of club music vibrates through him and he turns down drinks, blinking owlishly into the humming lights around him.

Sometimes, Danny goes through a door behind the bar and Eggsy gets a glimpse of a dark wall, a blue light cast against the wall, emanating from some hidden hidden corner. He hasn't been invited there yet. He stays in his seat, doesn’t look at the girls.

He stands two paces behind Danny, his hands folded in front of him, gun Danny gave him tucked into his waistband. He listens to them, Danny and some of the lesser traffickers, talk quickly, too fast for Eggsy to pick up on, Danny glancing back at him with an unreadable expression. He stands back far enough that he doesn’t look like he’s intruding, but he can still pick up snippets of their conversation but he thinks it doesn’t matter anyway. They know he can’t speak the language, looking over him with laughing sneers that make his skin crawl, hackles rising as he instinctively bristles, the impulsive need to become defensive running its destructive course over his already frayed nerves. He knows whatever he's getting is recording, his ear turned towards whoever is talking. 

He goes back to his room late almost every night, collapsing in the bed, feeling a kind tired of that sleep can't fix. He wakes up to Danny banging on his motel room door, the resounding thumps reverberating around the room, rattling the chain on its hook. Eggsy always reaches for the gun under his pillow, on instinct, before he can even drag his gritty sore eyes open. Just in case. 

He goes to Myanmar for the first set of refugees halfway through the month. Danny picks him up early one morning, hands him a duffel bag with passports and travel visas and documentation to hold onto. The truck Danny takes is a lumbering military unit, with metal frames curved over the bed, canvas tarp loosely tied down and one corner flapping in the wind. He hears the sound the entire trip up, the entire way back down to Pattaya. When they stop at the border crossing, Eggsy can’t seem to find a way to secure it and Danny, crunching another candy between his back teeth, tells him to forget it, won't make a difference anyway, he's never figured out how to get it stay out. 

When they arrive at the crumpled house where the group of migrants was waiting eagerly for them, Eggsy does just as Danny tells him. In a bleary daze, he follows Danny’s orders: line them up, check their bags for contraband, hand them their documentation, help them into the truck. They go willingly, with a modicum of trust that burns him because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. He almost doesn't think he’s there for a moment, their clammy hands in his as he helps them step into the back of the truck, disconnected from the warm breeze that brushes against the sweat on the back of his neck, his damp hair.

Danny watches him closely, litters his candy wrappers on the ground, nods his approval when Eggsy closes the end gate with numb, shaking hands and nods for him to get back in the truck.

Danny hands the border control agent the documents, verifying that the passengers in the back are allowed to cross. Eggsy stares out the window in front of him, chewing on his nail until the crossing is five miles behind them and he can let out shaky breath, Danny clapping him on the shoulder with a wild laugh: _told you—no worries, mate._

He sees Perry once, from a distance. Danny mentioned that he would occasionally stop by, to check on his venue; sit at a corner table with his back turned to the door during rush hour, so no one would feel compelled to let their keen gaze drift over and notice him, and wait for one of the owners to approach him. He always came unannounced—liked to observe, watching with steely eyes from a shadowy vantage point.

_Suspicious fucker, he is,_ Danny comments a few nights after Perry had made his appearance. He almost sounds offended. _He won’t even agree to meet me face to face, the wanker! What kind of business partner is that, won’t even look you in your face and shake your hand?_

_Guess he has to be. Wouldn't want to be seen with the likes of you._ Eggsy smirks around the bottle of beer he’s been nursing all evening.

The peanut shells Danny had been cracking between his fingers are tossed at Eggsy. A piece of shell catches him on the cheek, the barely-there sting of it making his skin itch. He scratches at him, rubs with his finger tips, smiling.

_You’re a cheeky little bastard._

Eggsy had been sitting back in a chair, head resting heavy in his hand, watching Danny one table over talk to one of the main operators, Decha and a new local guy they had only just met. But there's Perry, walking calmly with his hands behind his back, nodding at someone beside him. Eggsy didn't even get a good look at his face by the time he rounded the corner into the back room behind the bar, but Eggsy knows it’s him—studied his face for hours, for days, back at Kingsman. Burned into his brain. Eggsy paused, half-way off the chair, to—do what? Follow him, go after him, finish this before it even started. _You are not to intervene._ Danny and the others had turned to stare at him, surprised, questioning, and he had waved them off, turned back to his bottle of water. 

He doesn't see the group of women they brought back that day from Myanmar. He searches for their familiar faces at Jasmine’s Paradise, along Walking Street when Danny takes him to another venue to drink and talk ands strike up deals with seedy entrepreneurs, peering in every brothel and go-go house and massage parlour. He never sees them in the congested crowd, shoulders bumping with strangers, trying to look like he belonged. He knows he would recognize them if he saw them, tired trusting faces bright in the midday sun imprinted into him like an old memory.

He hopes they were the lucky few that actually made it out.

He takes January down off the wall. 

\- -

He buys the burner phone two days before the agreed upon date from a guy on a street corner, paying too much for the calling card and not giving a fuck either way. He wraps it up in a threadbare towel, shoved inside a spare set of socks, hidden underneath the sagging mattress he tried to sleep on every night.

The night he’s supposed to call, he tells Danny he’s sick and Danny doesn’t buy it but since there’s nothing work-related to attend to that night, he lets it go. Eggsy slips into the bathroom in his room, locks the door, and turns on the ventilation fan, the sound of it clunking and whirring barely to life. He sits down in the tub, curtain drawn around him, and waits another five minutes.

As he’s dealing the number, he thinks of the resignation and fear he felt at Holborn, almost three years ago, and he stops—he’s certain that he never outgrew being that impulsive, reckless, terrified kid he was the day he put all his chances on a medal that had lost all it’s meaning by the time it mattered most.

He expects Merlin’s voice to greet him (and he’s not entirely sure how he feels about that, with how their strenuous relationship kept them at a practical distance always). 

Instead, he gets Harry’s.

He thinks Harry is going to lay into him, tell him he is being ridiculous, tell him to stop this nonsense, to use his head. He prepares for it, in the shuddering breath where his heart trips viciously in his chest and throbs painfully in response, in the few seconds it takes for him to recognize it’s actually Harry.

But Harry doesn’t—Harry sounds far away and worn. Harry says Eggsy’s name once, twice. Eggsy can’t think of a way he can respond, his hand gripping the phone tightly in his sweating palm, his other hand braced against the tub; even though he’s sitting, he feels like he will collapse.

He stares at the cracked pastel green tile ahead of him, at a loss for words, until Harry says, _Oh, Eggsy, I wish you would have just talked to me._

And this—slumping back against the porcelain toilet, the crack against his shoulder blades, arm dropping and his elbow hitting the curved edge. _This_ —he scramble to his feet, knees protesting, fist curling into the plastic curtain. 

_Fuck this. This is absolute bullshit._

_Eggsy—_

_I’ve got fuck all for time, for this bullshit, ain't supposed to be over five minutes—_

_Eggsy—_

_I’ve got a fucking job to do. Get Merlin on the phone, you don’t have bloody clearance for this mission—_

_Eggsy!_ Forceful, demanding in desperation, a thread of pleading, of kindness, of hopefulness.

_What!_ Eggsy’s voice breaks, the sound of the fan whirring incessantly all around him. _What, Harry!_

The line crackles with static. Cheap fucking phone. Eggsy is surprised he can hear anything at all. _His heart was in the right place._

None of it makes any fucking sense, why Harry is so adamant about doing this now, because he's the one who left. He had every reason to. They had months for this and neither of them tried. It's for the best and he believes it. He should be okay, getting there at least. 

He's given up trying.

_I regret how I have handled this,_ Harry says. 

_Regret’s a pretty fucking weak word, Harry._

_I don't know how to do this—to do it properly. So you understand. Understand this—terrible mess I’ve put myself in._

The ring sits in his pocket. He takes it everywhere. He tried to leave it in the motel one day, tried to break the habit, and he had to lie to Danny, make a detour, to go back and get it.

He wonders how much Harry has had to drink today. He looks at his watch (plain, strap already worn, analogue face with a red hand for the seconds that tick by), calculates the time difference: he’s sure Harry is already there, early afternoon, dragged down from his dark office to the control room. Can see his pale face, unfocused gaze, the neat facade of gentleman fraying at the seams.

It makes him sick, how easily he can recall that version of Harry, over any others. Tries, in desperation, to remember Harry on the balcony, the sunlight over him; his sleep-tousled hair and half-awake smile in the mornings; the caress of Harry’s hand on the back of his neck, across his shoulders, around his wrist and pressing into his pulse, his heartbeat, warm and safe. It all slips from him before he can grasp it and he’s left with Harry, sickly and pale and removed, so far gone from Eggsy that he thinks he never really had him at all.

He hates Harry, he fucking hates him, and he can’t let him go.

_I'm an old man,_ Harry murmurs after a moment.

_That ain't an excuse._ Eggsy feels tenuous, on thin ice, ready to break. _You know it._

_I know,_ Harry says quickly. _But for how old I am, it has never been like this. I've never felt like this before._

_Like what?_

_Terrified. Terrified of losing you._

(And then, he’s in a room filled with water: he can see the door, he can stop this, and he hesitates with his hand on the latch. The room won't stop filling. The tide won't stop coming back in.)

His eyes gritty and strained, his arms near trembling with holding on, his throat ticking with each swallow. He shifts, hand still fisted into the plastic curtain but it’s sliding between his fingers, feels the ring digging into his thigh. He lets out a sigh, letting his head fall forward to rest against the dirty tile.

He can't say it. Not here, not like this. It was nothing, it was supposed to be nothing. 

_Just—put Merlin on._

Harry does.

\- -

He takes out February from where it’s been folded and crumpled in his jacket pocket, smooths down the creases, and pins it on the wall where January used to be. 

Six more trips to Myanmar this month and the faces begin to blur together after the third trip. The air conditioning breaks in the truck halfway through the month; Danny keeps saying he'll fix it later, so Eggsy rides with the window down, the tarp flapping behind him, the box rattling over the uneven dirt road. 

This time, he sees some of their faces on Walking Street that he recognizes, in the brothels he's come to frequent. On the stage of Jasmine’s Paradise, listless distant smiles and coy looks that fall from them as soon as the men look away. He turns his head, folds his hand in his lap, when he sees them lead a man behind the bar, into the dark doorway with the blue light like a ghastly beacon.

In between, he helps Danny bribe more government officials to turn a blind eye, forgers in back rooms of restaurants packed with tourists, police officers who stroll the city blocks where they keep the migrants in transit while waiting for someone to make a bid on them. They don’t always come to the dingy, cramped flats to be held until Danny had found a place for them—sometimes, Danny and Eggsy take them to a warehouse or drop-off point where someone waits with a lorry on the side of a road. He doesn't know what happens to them, where they go. He doesn't think to ask.

When the exhaustion catches up to him—the excruciating days and the sleepless nights and nightmares that come in jarring waves whenever he tries to close his eyes—Danny hands him a red pill. Danny has his own that he crushes in the palm of his hand, licks the the powder off like a dog.

_What is it?_ Eggsy asks, holding it between his thumb and finger. 

Danny’s drops his head back against the driver’s seat with a content sigh. _What keeps me going. What keeps this whole stinking place alive._

Eggsy fiddles with the red pill, turning it between his finger and thumb. He pockets it when they arrive at their stop past the border, hoping he forgets it’s there. To be so far from home… he’s not sure if he is willing to take the risk, to go down that path once more with no safety net. 

He’s sent to bring the ones cramped in the flats food: rice and bread, fills battered jugs with water for them to drink out of, wash their faces, chests and hands. He breathes through his mouth so he doesn't have to cover his nose at the smell: relentless heat on unwashed bodies, scraps of food and piss. 

With a barely concealed sneer on his face, Danny tells him this is the nastiest work. Then he barks a laugh, his tongue purple from one of the candies he had been sucking on, and says he’s glad he can make someone else do it.

Eggsy inadvertently earns his place when he has to play his part, catches one of the working girls trying to pocket her earnings for the night. He has his fingers gripped into her upper arm, taking her to the den mother who was overseeing the girls that night.

Halfway there, he has a compulsive need to let her get away with it. God knows she fucking needed the money, maybe was trying to buy her way out or back home. 

But this is not what he’s been trained for. 

(He remembers when Arthur had debriefed him shortly before Christmas, reminding him where he was to stand. 

_It will be difficult but you must maintain your cover at all times. Even when you believe your actions to be harmful. Your alias is there for one purpose only._

Arthur had looked at him expectantly and it took Eggsy a minute to realize he was meant to answer.

_To get close to Perry,_ Eggsy answers. _To not engage. To blend in._

Arthur had nodded, looking occupied and austere. _To blend in_ , he echoed back.)

She hadn't said anything, just stood where Eggsy had left her in front of the boss, shivering. He doesn’t understand what's being said but he hangs back, trying to look self-important, satisfied. Blend in. He’s happy with the work he’s done and the boss smiles at him in acknowledgement.

After that, he's invited to sit with a group of them—traffickers and club owners and highly regarded patrons—share their smokes, order a drink with them, permitted to laugh and smile at their jokes even if he doesn't understand beyond a few words that stuck out from his lessons with Bors. He rubs at the small scar behind his ear where the implant sits, feels his neck prickle with sweat, let’s Danny vouch for him and shake his shoulder in a show of acceptance, camaraderie.

Decha talks slowly to Eggsy, a cigarette between his fingers, and says he doesn't trust many people, like this is a threat. Eggsy’s smart enough to know it is. 

Decha says he trusts Danny. So, he trusts Gary. 

Every so often, he doesn’t respond to these people calling him by his name as fast as he should. Forgets he is supposed to be Gary, not even the Gary he was when he was a kid—he hasn’t heard someone call him Eggsy in twenty-five days. Gawain in thirty-seven. Danny will watch him from across the room when this happens, when he loses track of who he is, concern stitching his sharp features together. He still wears the purple tinted glasses, even at night.

He goes where Danny goes; and Danny goes everywhere. 

\- -

He buys the burner phone from a different vendor this time; still just as cheap, the calling card still outrageously priced. The guy selling looks at him like he knows Eggsy is up to something no good—but it’s probably something like what everyone else here is trying to hide: affairs, drugs, money bet and lost.

This time, he walks a few blocks from Walking Street, sits down on a bus bench underneath a dim streetlight and dials the new number. Two rings before it picks up, Merlin saying, _Gawain._

_He hasn’t shown up in over a month._

_Yes, well, he’s not even in the country. He's been in London for the past three weeks meeting with various parliament members._

Eggsy drags a hand down his face. _Great. The fuck is even the point—_

_It's the nature of these missions, Eggsy. It's all a waiting game._

_Don't really think I'm wired for this kind of thing._

_No one is._

Eggsy almost wants to ask if Harry wasn't either; if he got as antsy and bored with fingers twitching to do more when he took these missions. He wants to know how many of these missions he has taken over his career, just so he can compare something else, see how they don't line up, aren't perfectly matched like he thought they would be. 

He almost wants to ask Harry himself before he realizes he doesn't want to talk to him, to hear his voice, his sadness and his disappointment. 

_They trust me now. Let me sit with them, actually get close to them. The—boss or whatever, and his buddies._

_That's good._ There is genuine surprise in his voice—relief, maybe. _Established solid contact. And in good time._

Eggsy suddenly feels like he doesn't want to say anymore, give Merlin any kind of satisfaction in his successes. _Yeah. Yeah, you'll get all your precious recordings, don't worry._

He shares what else he knows: names, dates, places. Merlin asks if he's sleeping well; Eggsy lies and says he is. 

Merlin gives him the new number and Eggsy hangs up. He turns the flip phone over, snapping it down the middle until he's left with two pieces. He turns back towards Walking Street, bypasses it and heads straight for the beach. 

In the dark, the waves lap against the shore, lit only by the light of the moon. As the water pulls back, he winds his arm and throws the broken phone as far as he can. Then, he stays there, staring out at the water, and thinks of nothing in particular: the droning of nightlife that melds together; the ripple of blue moonlight on the ocean; the exhausting routine he will face tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. 

He kicks off his shoes, pulls off his socks and buries his feet in the sand, curling in his toes, thousands of tiny pebbles dragging across his skin.

\- -

He doesn't take down February, he just covers it with March. March has a flower in the corner, vines trailing down the edge of the paper. He thinks of Camden Lock, the pennant banners fluttering overhead, the shops of jewel-toned lampshades and blue guitars on the ceiling and bolts of fabric stacked high along the old brick walls.

He doesn’t want to miss home; so he stops thinking about it. 

Danny displays moments of profound clarity. Feet kicked up on an overturned can, talking to Eggsy as he sorts through the next back of migrants, crunching on the candies he rustles from his pockets.

_Can't believe it, eh? World goes insane, killing each other, killing your mum and your girlfriend and your brother and your little old neighbour and her cute little yappy dog. Wake up and pfft, how many dead—millions? Fuck, it was a lot. You'd think it'd be a wake up call. We'd all be more, I don't know, loving and accepting. Nah, we're all just the same as we ever were, just cruel and uncaring as we've always been. Talk about the human condition._

_What about you?_ Eggsy asks. 

_Me?_

_Not like your hands are clean,_ Eggsy points out with a shrug, gesturing to the group before him. 

_Hah!_ But Danny's eyes go dark, flint-sharp, searching Eggsy. _Are yours, Mr London?_

Rain comes infrequently, breaking up the monotonous heat. Eggsy opens the window in his motel room, having to jimmy the sliding pane open, prop it up with the telly remote so it doesn't slam back down on his fingers without warning. He buys a pack of cigarettes, blowing the smoke out the open window, muggy heat seeping in as grey clouds hover over Pattaya.

A new group comes into the flat. He follows the same routine: brings them food and water, breathes through his mouth, avoids their confused, fearful stares. Most are malleable, compliant, but there are a few that try to fight back. One woman—his age, maybe younger, he guesses—spits at him when he hands her a plastic glass of water, a plate of overcooked rice and sliced mango (he had seen them in the market down the street from his motel; he thought, despite what he was doing, despite blending in, moments of sympathy, of kindness would not be so unheard of). The hot gob of it hits him on his cheek, making him stumble back in surprise, close his eyes. She smacks the plate out of his hand, staring defiantly up at him, her eyes flinty and terrified.

Instinct makes him act out: throwing the cup down, a hand flying out to grab her wrist, to throw her back down onto her stained mattress, controlling himself before he can yell back at her, do something worse, something he feels capable of in this moment. 

It’s just blending in, isn’t it?

Danny merely shrugs, says it happens enough, not to take it personally. He can feel her wrist beneath his wrist, the frail bones and sticky-warm skin and the thundering pulse. For days after, it flares up in a tingling sensation across his palm like an old burn. He rubs his hands across his jeans, trying to rid himself to it.

He keeps his distance afterwards when bringing the food, refuses to look them in the eyes. A prolonged guilt gnawing away at his conscience. Two weeks later, when he has to transport the group, he keeps his eyes trained above their heads. Touches with conscious care and gentleness; the one who spit at him bolsters her resolve at his apparent weakness, yanks her arm from his grasp and marches defiantly from the flat, head held high.

He’s too disgusted, too ashamed, to find it in him to say sorry.

Eggsy sits in on conversations he doesn’t half understand; he’s picking up on certain words, the typical tourists phrases Bors had taught him, code words that only the traffickers and club owners would use when talking business. There are the other ones that become recognizable under the mumbling hacking breath of Decha and his men, speaking with cigarettes hanging off their lips, talking around mouthfuls of fried pork and rice noodles. Later, he asks Danny what some things mean, the phrases or words he's committed to memory. Danny is always frustratingly evasive, reluctant to share. But he does, fear of retribution from powers higher than him reprimanding him for not keeping Eggsy informed. 

He picks up on the talk of extortion and the money laundering and the hit men on the black books. He keeps up the guise of being clueless, uninterested, fixing a dead stare at the girls dancing on the stage, like he’s not really listening. 

Near the end of March, Perry brushes past him in the brothel, their shoulders knocking together in the tight space. He gives Eggsy a disapproving look over his shoulder, that turns to appreciation when Eggsy mutters an apology.

_A fellow Brit_ , Perry comments, turning fully to face Eggsy, tucking his hands into his pockets. Guarded. _No one said as much._

He must know who Eggsy is. Must have been made aware of what he’s been doing because he feels comfortable enough to turn and face him, even in the shadows.

He doesn’t offer to shake Eggsy’s hand and Eggsy has to remember to not take it, any of this, personally. Has to remember this is not who he is. But he feels a slithering of disgust at this place, at the people in the dark damp transit houses who regard him with distrust and hurt, guilt at the beginnings of revulsion that move through him.

Eggsy raises his eyebrows, juts out his jaw in response. _Yeah. I am._

Perry smiles, like Eggsy amuses him. _How about I buy you a drink?_

And so he does.

\- -

_He talked to me,_ Eggsy says before Merlin can say anything first _. Perry. Didn’t tell me much, just jerked off to his own fucking ego but—fuck, he’s a right prick, even without the trafficking shit. You gotta give me clearance to take this bastard down._

_Your direct orders are to gather intel, not to engage. This is not just a Kingsman mission, Gawain. Sometimes, even Arthur has to answer to someone._

Eggsy scoffs. _I thought the point of us is we don’t have to answer to no one._

_And how do you expect us to continue operating in a vacuum?_ Merlin asks crossly. _Our funds must come from somewhere._

_Isn’t that supposed to be a conflict of interests?_

Merlin is quiet for a moment before he remarks, _That’s not really your concern._

_No, sir_ , Eggsy replies curtly _. I guess it isn’t._

Eggsy can’t put his finger on it, but some threadbare expectation he finds he was clinging to, only made aware of it after he no longer has it’s tenuous foundations, is severed carelessly with this. And maybe it should have been obvious that a spy agency would keep its various secrets—it’s a given, for them to operate under the highest levels of discretion. But the further he gets from the authority and sway his elders hold over him, he feels like he can take a vantage point and suddenly see things much more precisely: how little they give him in regards to what he is tracking down, who he is going after, and why. For months and months, each former mission called into question. How many times he had been sent out on an objective that had its strings pulled by someone he did not know, could not see.

It sits like a disturbing pressure at the back of his head, clouding around his every consideration, his every move to action, every day he turns his back to the things he must bear witness to, climbing into that truck and willingly taking more naive people seeking a better life further into despair. 

He has never been one to sit by, to let things take their course. It has always been him versus the rest of the world.

And the fault lay with them—Kingsman and their refusal to take responsibility in so many things that had gone wrong—that Eggsy was losing his trust.

_\- -_

April makes itself known with a torrential downpour. The telly has no reception and the room has that stifling, damp atmosphere. It reminds him of London and there’s a sharp, fleeting longing that makes itself known and fades just as quick.

Three months gone. April is when everything changes.

Back from Myanmar and the transit house, the cycle on endless repeat, Danny leads him on tired legs to the back room. Eggsy has to blink into the low light to adjust. The blue light, an arrow he now sees pointing to a hidden hallway behind a closed curtain, casts a sickly pallor onto Danny’s face, his absurd hat and sunglasses.

Danny sits him down in a chair. Indirect, dim glowing lights that leave him blinking into what seems like an empty room: then, the sounds reach him, soft whispers and gentle exaggerated moans, someone giggling from behind him, curtains rustling and swishing as they open then close. Then he sees it: indistinct silhouettes moving around him, seated on couches in corners, crossing the room, limbs tangled in an incomprehensible play of blue light and shadows.

Danny—he thinks it’s Danny, anyway—appears in his line of vision, glint of purple-tinted aviators catching the light, before he feels small, cool hands on his neck, trail down his arms, take his hands and pull him to stand.

This close, he can see marginally better: the curve of an upper lip, hair falling over a slender shoulder, eyelashes fluttering closed as his hands sway with her movements. 

Before he can get his bearings, she leads him past one of the curtains, into a more brightly lit room and he sees her more clearly: a girl, standing before him. And that’s what she is, _just a girl._

Eggsy rubs at his eyes, blinking rapidly, and sees her starting to undress, tugging down the straps of her shirt over her shoulders.

_No—no, don’t do that, stop—_

He has to lunge at her, grab hold of her hands to make her stop. She doesn’t even flinch, stares at him with a blank, delirious look; lets him guide her backwards to sit on the folded out futon that is pushed up against the wall. She stays there as he paces the room, rubbing a hand across his face, pushing back his hair that has grown too long, falls in oily tendrils over his eyes.

_What’s your name?_ he asks.

She doesn’t say anything; smiles at him, indifferent, and stays sitting, her hands open and palms facing up on her lap

He asks again in Thai, slow with the enunciation so he gets it right. She doesn’t answer. He crouches down in front of her, puts a finger to his chest, hoping she understands. _I’m Gary._

She tilts her head, the only indication that she may understand, and Eggsy feels some relief. She raises her hands, fingers curled into loose fists, presenting her wrists to Eggsy. Expecting him to wrap his fingers around them, an invitation.

Decha corners him after he’s stumbled back out into the main area, away from the confining room and shuddering silhouettes. _Do you not like my girls? Is there something wrong with them? I take good care of my girls! What makes you think you are better than me?_

Eggsy, bleary and stunned, backs into the corner, his hands up by his face. _That’s not—I never meant it—_

_Do you reject my gift? It is a gift!_ Decha says, his voice rising. _Are you the kind of man that says no to a kind, generous gift?_

_No._

Decha grins, salacious, licking his bottom lip. _Do you prefer… the lady-boys?_

Eggsy shakes his head vigorously. _I don’t want any of them._

_Then why are you here?_

Eggsy opens his eyes, Decha with his crowded teeth and sharp eyes, and tries to come up with an answer and finds he has none. Not for anyone.

The next day, he tells Danny he must have ate something off for supper, that he really can’t make the trip that day. Danny looks pissed off, snapping a candy in half between his front teeth. The convoy truck is parked on the street, it’s guttural sputtering and choking the only sound this early in the morning. But Danny leaves without him, says he’ll find someone else.

Eggsy draws the curtains when Danny goes, locks the door, lays down on his bed with his hands over his face.

He’s plagued with thoughts of home: like far-off, foggy memories that he tries to pluck and form back into being. Roxy’s rooftop deck and her stretched out on a yoga mat, the heady scent of verbania and wisteria; the polished floors of the mansion reflecting his steps, the east-facing windows that framed the burning red sunset; discarded cups of tea on Merlin’s desk; his fingers buried in cool, rich earth and his mum beside him.

He thinks of Gloucester Road at dusk, of the white stone arch as he walked towards the solitary quiet of Stanhope Mews. He can picture it so vividly, even sees his feet hitting the pavement, the smell of exhaust and the flowers in his arms surrounding him. Harry’s hand in his, the nearness of him so real Eggsy turns to seek it out, blindly, thousands of miles away.

The sense of _home,_ their home, what he had shared with him: his suits hanging beside Harry’s in the closet, mornings filled with the sound of the kettle whistling and moving around the house, windows open and letting in the gentle sounds of their quiet street. 

He allows himself to think about Harry, for the first time in months. He had gone so long without a thought given to him and now he seems flooded with every touch, every word, every happiness and sorrow passed between them. In the absence of any feeling besides distant disregard, it seems as if he feels it all anew.

The impossible, wretched largeness of loneliness that spreads with a throbbing ache in his chest, makes his arms and limbs heavy. 

Of course, there’s the angry words they said, the lies, and hiding, and secrets. Of Harry telling him, _know your place._ The question whether it’s worth it.

But then—there’s the ring, Harry bathed in sunlight on the back balcony, flowers on the dining room table, kissing Harry to the point of breathlessness. Harry holding him up, carrying his weight and his tragedies and his battered youthful pride; Harry loving him without exception or expectation. Knowing, innately and so completely, that he loves Harry the same.

How desperately, now, that he wishes to be with Harry again, to fall into his arms, to be loved once again. In one weak, lonely span of time suspended before him, he wants to go home, to where home was Harry. To forgive him just so he can have Harry tell him that he will be alright, he will be okay.

That what he has done is not him, that he deserves to be loved still.

He thought, in the end and with time, he would love Harry less. He knows he never can. 

_\- -_

Merlin allots them five minutes to pass on relevant information. Merlin never uses this time to share anything with Eggsy. Not that Eggsy ever expected any updates from their end. Honestly, he find he doesn’t want them.

This time, Eggsy is done in two minutes, leaving a few seconds of extended awkward silence before Merlin gives him the new number. Eggsy sets the phone on the sidewalk, stomps on it until it’s smashed beneath his shoe, the screen and buttons scattered in a circle around him.

He takes one final hasty drag of his cigarette before he drops it to the pavement, lets it smoulder to ashes beside the smashed phone.

_\- -_

He's a week late with May. He takes down April, marking the corners with bloody fingerprints. 

He’s finally able to sleep, exhaustion taking over.

A week into April, fifteen miles outside of Pattaya, he’s got his face ground into the dirt, a boot to the back of his neck. He’s got his hands and legs free and he can calculate at least six different ways he could take down the man pinning him down—but even he can’t out maneuver a gun to the back of his skull fast enough. His own gun, ripped from his waistband and tossed into the ditch, too far from his reach. And not with four more waiting for him.

A few feet from him, Danny’s in the same position and they’re looking right at each other. Danny’s hat is flung off to the side, his glasses bent at a weird angle so Eggsy can only see half of his right eye. Eggsy thinks that he doesn’t look scared.

Eggsy knew this from the few minutes when the truck rolled to a stop to when he was pushed to the road: these are Decha’s men and they know one of them isn’t who he claims to be.

One of them is bent over Danny, elbows resting on his knees, his gun hanging carelessly between his legs as he asks Danny question after question and Danny tries to shake his head against the ground, fiercely denies the accusations being said. 

Eggsy stays perfectly still, lets the boot on his neck grow lazy, crushing him further down, the toe of the boot settling precariously on his windpipe. He tries not to gasp for air, tries to wriggle his head so the boot doesn’t cover the recording implant.

Then, the man questioning Danny has the muzzle of his gun shoved against Danny’s temple, the sound of the safety flicking off, finger over the trigger, mere seconds—and it has to be a bluff, it _has_ to be, Danny’s been doing this for _fucking years—_

Eggsy had been told that if he ever found himself in a dangerous situation, he must not lose his cover. That no matter what happened, he must remain little more than a bystander. But it doesn’t stop the bubble of panic that fills up in his throat, the instinctive need to fight, push back, get himself out of this by any means possible, the look of pure terror on Danny’s face devastatingly apparent for just one second when they both realize this will only end one way right before the trigger is pulled.

Danny’s head gives a fitful jerk, ricocheting off the ground from the force of the bullet. And when Eggsy gets a forceful kick to the back of his head from the aborted cry that slips from him, he’s not entirely sure whether it’s from his genuine shock or the fear that they found him out as well.

They drag him to his feet and dust him off as Danny’s blood pools around his head. The man who shot Danny takes Eggsy roughly by the neck, looks into Eggsy’s face with a dark, demanding stare. His other hand, holding the gun, rests on Eggsy’s shoulder—the still hot muzzle presses on his shirt and he hisses at the sudden sharp pain.

_Understood?_ the man asks.

Eggsy glances back at Danny’s body; his breath is coming in short, shallow pants. He looks back to the man and nods. _Yeah. Yeah, understood._

And he knows this is not an act of mercy or a show of trust: because he knows, just as well as them, that true fear is more dependable than respect in just about every case.

He is on borrowed time, he knows, until they can find someone to replace him. He is disposable, replaceable, and he means nothing to them.

They send him with a kick to the back of his knees, stumbling, to finish the job. Eggsy manages to grab Danny’s hat from where it had been throw, putting it on to cover his own too long hair, and doesn't look in the mirrors to see what they do with Danny’s body. 

They don’t let him sit down with them but they still send him up to Myanmar for the next batch of migrants, accompanied by a familiar unkind face from the club. Eggsy sucks on candies from Danny’s leftover stash and he feels shockingly calm, handing over the forms to let him cross without issue. When Eggsy turns the radio on, the guy leans over to turn it off.

The border agent seems perplexed that Danny isn't with him but he lets Eggsy pass through.

This new guy, one of Decha’s men from Jasmine’s Paradise, is rougher with the passengers. Sneers openly at them, yells in one older woman’s face when she drops her identification papers, kicks the backs of their legs when they move too slow for his liking. Eggsy says nothing; knowing his place. 

Someone has started to follow him to his motel room and stands guard outside the door. Follows him down every street he takes, accompanies him into every club and bar. Hover over him as he stands back in his corner by the bar in Jasmine’s Paradise, nursing his bottle of watery beer and picking from a bowl of peanuts.

He doesn’t even try to shake them off, ditch them on some busy street corner, slip into a crowded market and disappear. He has nowhere to go but where they tell him to. 

The girls in the back room: the giggles and moans turning to pleas, crying softly. The bruises they walk out with, the den mother shrieking at them, sending them off to a dark bathroom to fix up, applying make up over the cuts and mottled marks, comb back their hair and smile. He lets it happen, he lets it happen, he lets it happen. 

There is nowhere to escape from the things he has done here. No one to tell him he will be okay. He starts to think he won't be. 

\- -

He manages to slip a phone from a customer’s table at Jasmine’s after they had turned their back to watch the dancers. He lets the tail follow him back, gives him a cheeky wave goodnight that earns him a glowering stare. He turns on the fan, the shower, and wiggles himself into the tight space between the sink and toilet on the grungy floor.

The sound is unbearable and his shoulders already ache from the cramped space. He feels safe here, at least. 

He doesn’t even let Merlin speak first.

_They killed Danny. My contact. He’s dead._

Merlin gives a startled noise. _Jesus. Okay, do you—_

_They shot him. Found out he was in with someone else, I don’t know. Dunno if they know about Interpol or what. Must’ve caught him with a contact. Or heard about it or—fucking hell, I don’t know._

_Who ordered the hit? Was it Perry? Decha?_

_Merlin, I don’t know. It’s not like they’re gonna tell me._

_Do you need extraction?_

It’s not like he liked Danny, not really—but he trusted him. He had to trust him, he had no other choice. He was never Eggsy’s friend, no matter how he tried to make it so, but if Eggsy wanted to survive this, he had to put his trust in Danny. And now he has nothing. 

_No,_ Eggsy says resolutely. _We follow the original plan._

_If they have eyes on you, Gawain, we need to—_

_And I’m saying we finish this the way we planned. Nothing changes._

He says this, knowing he won’t abide by it. There is no trust: not between him and those that dictate his safety here, within Jasmine’s Paradise. Not between him and the ones that have guaranteed his coming home. 

With Merlin, he’s losing focus, determination; how he thought he could ever put all his faith in them, he doesn’t know. He feels he’s betrayed his own sense of preservation, his own efficiency—he can’t let Perry get away with this longer, the months it will take to build a case against him, even with Eggsy’s knowledge. By the time Merlin gives him a date, time and coordinates for his extraction in a month, Eggsy already has his own plans made.

\- -

He doesn’t put June up on the wall. He takes it out and lays it flat on the desk. Takes the pen from the drawer, circles the 25th and leaves it there.

He can still recall, with perfect satisfying clarity, the look on Chester King’s face when he told him, on the tails of his own grief and realization, _The problem with us common types is that we are light-fingered._

It’s what’s at the forefront of his mind when he lifts a plastic bottle of vinegar from the food vendor where he buys his lunch one afternoon, able to slip it into his jacket pocket when he turns into a crowd of tourists, apologizing profusely for bumping into them. He manages to do this a few more times, from restaurants and even little packets he gets in his takeaway.

He lifts a jug of bleach from the motel maid’s cart when she’s vacuuming an empty room, dropping it into a shopping bag filled with other toiletries, and stepping into his room before his tail can catch up from around the corner.

He saves all his empty water bottles, lining them up on his bedside table. 

He goes to Myanmar, brings more of the women back to the crowded flats and warehouses and road-side pick ups. He follows his routine, what’s expected of him. In the evenings, he props the small window open in the bathroom, secures a towel around his mouth and nose, and mixes the bleach and vinegar in the water bottles, hastily capping them before the smell makes him start to hack and cough. His eyes still water uncontrollably, the sting of it inescapable. 

He cleans his gun meticulously on the 23rd, checks the clips he has left and tucks them into his inner jacket pocket. He strips his carry-on bag he had brought with him six months ago, leaves it on a street corner with some clothes and unused soap and shampoo from the motel, hoping someone can make use of it.

For the next two days, all he carries with him is his gun, the picture Daisy drew him and the ring.

01200 hours at an abandoned naval air strip outside Utapao is where Lamorak will be waiting for him with a twin-prop to take him out of Thailand borders, to a meeting point in India. From there, they will board a jet to London and home. Quick, efficient extraction.

It’s just want Eggsy needs, evidently, for what he has planned.

_\- -_

Eggsy has learned even the best thought-out plans don’t always work. The vast unpredictability of any possible thing makes it a useless endeavour, frustrating despite the exhaustive attention to the minutiae and the frantic effort to improvise on the spot. More important than thoroughly researching every possible scenario was the ability to adapt second by second, to anticipate every possible course of action and reaction without hesitation, without faltering, without failing.

Still, that doesn’t mean one shouldn't plan ahead. 

It will go like this:

Midnight on the 24th, he will step into Jasmine’s Paradise. It will be busy but the major crowds will be thinning out. Weigh the pros and cons: intent versus causality. The balances are tipped. His choices will never be easy.

He will wait for a clearing, a good opportunity, then he will pull the bottles of vinegar and bleach from his jacket, uncap the tops and toss them under the tables where Decha and his men sit. He will have only a minute, maybe less, before the fumes reach him and he won’t be able to breathe. He has to time it just perfectly: drop the shiv from his sleeve, advance them from behind, aim for the jugular—get at least two before they try to overtake him. Then, it’s the heel of his palm underneath the nose of whoever is closest, wait for the break, punch the busted cartilage and bone further in.

This is where it begins to fall apart.

He should be in the back room, clearing out the girls, but he missed the table in the corner where two more hired men were sitting. He gets the butt of a gun smashed against his temple, sending him reeling, collapsing over a chair and onto a table. On the ground, he inhales a lungful of gas and starts to choke, filling up his lungs, making his eyes burn unbearably, start to water.

But they can’t see either, hacking breaths and barking orders as he crawls on his elbows and knees under the table, wipes the tears from his face, regains his surroundings. 

He trips up someone walking past him, sending them crashing to the floor. Elbow to the jaw, a strangled groan, and he wrestles the gun from their grasp. He doesn’t worry about saving his bullets now.

He shuffles over to the man before him, now struggling to get up, and unloads two bullets into the back of his skull. Someone starts to scream, high-pitched and terrified. He turns instinctively towards the noise; as he does he’s clipped around the side of the head, sending him back to the floor. A cacophony of gunshots, of rising voices, tables overturned and crashing to the floor.

In the chaos, through wet-blurred vision and stampeding feet as people push to escape the noxious fumes, Eggsy manages to get behind the bar. Up on his knees, he searches blindly across the countertop until he finds a dishrag to press over his mouth. He takes a few deep breaths in, shuffling along the length of the bar to get closer to the back room. The bartender, laying face down with his hands over his head, looks up when Eggsy knocks his foot against him; there’s a moment of pause where they stare at each other, where the bartender looks like he may say something, call out.

There had never been a moment out in the field where he hadn’t had someone's voice in his ear, guiding him, warning him, reminding him of where to go, where to turn, what to do. It has always drowned out the noise around him—the bullets and shouting and feet hitting the floor—threaded through a sense of calm, protection.

He had taken bigger risks than this, had gone into situations far more dangerous—but there had always been someone on the other side, looking out for him.

He realizes this, as if too late, just how vulnerable he is: no weapons, no bullet proof suit, no handler.

For the first time, he believes he could actually die here. That he is not so invincible, no safety net in Kingsman to fall back into: if he did, it would be a dead drop and far too late.

Just as the bartender makes to stand, maybe to alert the others, Eggsy kicks out at his face. A gurgled shriek of pain as he rises up to a crouch, covers the man’s mouth and shoots him between the eyes.

But it’s not quiet enough and within seconds, another man has come behind the bar, spotting Eggsy with his hand still over the bartender’s mouth. The man leaps on him, arms around his shoulders, pulling him down as he unsheathes a curved hunting knife from his hip. Eggsy drops the gun, using the same hand to reach out to stop the knife from coming down across his face, closing his fist around the blade. The man jerks, dragging the razor sharp blade across the meat of Eggsy’s palm.

Eggsy bites his tongue on the startled cry, wrenching his arm back, fist still clenched and driving the knife deeper into the wound, catching the man off guard. Eggsy uses the momentum to throw the man to the floor, the knife pulling clean from his grasp. Eggsy hisses, clenching his teeth, and with a bloody, pulsing hand, takes up the knife from the discombobulated man and drives it into the back of the man’s neck.

He snatches up his gun from where he had dropped it, steadied his now trembling hand against the bar ledge, and took aim and fired three shots: shoulder shot into a man turning towards him, stomach shot to a man rising from behind an overturned table and above the left eye of another charging towards him.

Eggsy scans the room quickly, finding no one else remaining; a few dancers cowering in the corner, a patron standing shockingly still amidst the gunfire, sweat and spatters of blood across his sunburnt face.

Eggsy takes the dingy rag he used to cover his mouth and ties it around his bleeding hand, tightening it with his teeth. He slips into the back room, gun held out in front of him, sweeping the corner before advancing closer. When he emerges into the dimly lit room, someone tries to approach him, demanding to know what was going on. They lose their nerve when they bump their hand against the barrel of his gun, back away into the shadows as Eggsy moves to the middle of the room.

_Decha?_ His voice sounds hoarse, breathing ragged from the gas. _Where is he? Decha!_

A few people shake their heads, slinking further away, cowering into corners. Eggsy turns on the spot. He repeats the question in Thai. One or two of the girls raise their head to meet his eye in the dim light but no one says a word.

_Decha!_

From behind him, Eggsy hears Decha’s gravelly voice. _You ask for me?_

Eggsy rounds on him, gun trained on Decha’s chest instantly. _Yeah. Been looking for you._

_You made a mess of my business. Coming off your pay._

_Fine,_ Eggsy spits out. He closes the gap between them, pats him down with his free hand. He pulls a revolver from Decha’s waistband, a switchblade from his back pocket; he takes both, pocketing them in his jacket. _You’re gonna take me to the British Embassy._

Decha’s eyebrows go up; Eggsy can see the glint of his eyes in the blue light. _Looking for pardon?_

Eggsy smirks. _Actually, looking for your boss. Wanna have a few words._

Decha shrugs. _He is busy._

_The fuck he is,_ Eggsy snarls, two quick steps to shove his gun into the tender spot under Decha’s jaw, forcing his head to tilt up. _I need you to get me into see him._

_You are British. Just—_ Decha grins, wiggles his fingers— _walk in._

_You know he won’t see me. Not without you._

_And what do you plan to do?_

Eggsy pushes Decha’s chin up further, until he’s sure it hurts, the barrel cutting into his throat. _Like I said—just wanna have a few words._

\- -

Decha goes with him; Eggsy knows it’s not because he is particularly persuading or even intimidating—though Decha does commend him for taking out his men. Eggsy knows it’s because Decha is, ultimately, a weak, snivelling man and he has no one left to protect him.

He strong arms Decha through the remains of the front room, kicking idly at the limbs of Decha’s decimated men, and out into the street. Decha goes easily, almost willingly, with a smile on his face. There’s already a crowd around the building, the shots and yells heard clear across Walking Street.

Eggsy knows Merlin will skin his hide for the logistical mess this will be to clean up, sweep under the rug. 

_You foreigners are always so exciting,_ Decha comments with a laugh. _And what of my girls?_

_They ain’t yours,_ Eggsy hisses against his ear, shoving him further down the street.

He glances back to where the girls he has come to recognize over the past few months are now stumbling out in the street, clinging to each other, dazed, coughing into their hands. Someone is shouting, waving their arms—directed at him. Eggsy swiftly turns away and steers Decha into a tangle of people, hoping whoever had spotted him loses sight of them, forgets their faces just as fast.

Decha shakes his head. _You think they will survive? Out there? Amongst the lions and the mangy dogs?_ Decha spits at his feet and Eggsy stumbles to step around it, sneering at the man. _I gave them shelter, money, food. Things they did not have. Things they could not get on their own._

_You think you gave them anything?_ Eggsy turns them off of Walking Street, down the block to where he had parked the truck. _Locking them up, making them sell themselves for you. But I ain’t really got much of a problem with you—I know your kind all too well. Scum, lower than the shit on the bottom of my shoe. You’d get your nasty fingers into any sort of shit just to make some money._

Decha inclines his head back to look at Eggsy, a dark, guarded expression in his eyes. _Yes_ , he says calmly.

_It’s your boss, Perry. My problem’s with him. And that’s why I want to speak with him._

They stop outside the truck; Decha turns to face Eggsy more closely. _He is a man of few words._ He looks Eggsy up and down. _As you know._

_Don’t really plan on talking long._ Eggsy plants his gun against the small of Decha’s back; he needs Decha to get him in, where he will force Perry out, to come with him back to Kingsman; where they will make him confess. What they should have done from the start. _Get in the truck._

_\- -_

It’s less than two hours to Bangkok but Eggsy checks his watch every few minutes.

_Are you late for something?_

Eggsy grips the steering wheel, concentrates on the headlights on the road ahead of him, cutting through the oil-slick darkness. _Shut up._

Decha guides him through the streets of Bangkok, trundling through narrow streets and around markets stirring with the beginnings of daylight cresting the horizon. They weave through residential areas, cross congested roads, waiting on traffic and pedestrians.

_It can’t take this long to get to the bloody place_ , Eggsy snaps, drumming his fingers across the steering wheel. He has four hours to finish this and get back to Utapao for extraction.

_It is big city_. Decha spreads his hands apart before setting them in his lap, loosely linked together. _What can I say?_

Eggsy chews on the inside of his bottom lip until he tastes the blood and has to stop. 

When they finally pull up to the Embassy, Decha points him around back to Perry’s personal entrance. The guards eye them suspiciously as Eggsy rolls up to the reinforced metal gate, keeps his gun flat on the seat, pressed into Decha’s thigh. Decha waves and greets them, leaning out of the window to speak with them.

A minute passes of hushed whispers and a nagging sense of something off when Decha turns back to him. _They say that he is out on business._

Eggsy looks up at the Embassy, it’s stone facade and white pillars rising the two storeys to the roof, the gravel turn-a-bout and the neatly manicured garden of vivid flowers in the centre. The curtains drawn shut across the windows, no movement.

_That right?_ Eggsy swallows around the panic building in his throat. He carefully moves his gun into his lap. _Ask when he’ll be back._

_Oh—they do not wish to answer._

Two guards have flanked his side of the truck, their weapons raised. Eggsy spends one bewildering moment to glance at Decha, knowing now—with some admiration—what the man had done, before his door is opened and he is dragged out of the truck. 

He is able to wrestle from the guard’s grasp when they readjust their grip on their gun, giving him enough room to twist his upper body, jabbing an elbow under their rib causing them to catch their breath, lose their balance. Still kneeling, Eggsy braces his one hand on the man’s knee, using the other hand to slam down on it with the heel of his hand, dislocating it with a resounding snap, sending the man to the ground with a strangled yelp. He stands, kicking the gun out of the guard’s reach; when the guard reaches out anyway, Eggsy kicks him in the stomach, other foot crushing the man’s fingers beneath his heel. 

He sees Decha with his hands over his head inching towards the guard’s booth. Eggsy steadies himself on the wheel fender, taking out both guards leading him between the eyes. They drop with thumps to the ground, Decha turning to face him.

A bullet ricochets off the hood beside him; he ducks to the side, out of the way before another bullet lands right where he had been leaning. He sends the guard to the ground with two bullets to the knees, picking up the discarded gun and tossing it over the fence into the embassy grounds.

Decha, who had stayed where he was, walks back towards the truck with his hands still on his head. He lets them fall to his side as Eggsy climbs back into his seat, tears out of the driveway without looking behind him.

\- -

It’s all spinning out, spiralling down, out of control. 

Decha is a sly bastard; for all his seemingly sedentary vices, he is quick enough to snatch his switchblade from Eggsy’s pocket, open the passenger door and launch himself backwards onto the road as they are flying down the deserted road towards Utapao. 

Eggsy slams on the brakes causing the back end to swing out violently as he screeches to a halt in the middle of the highway. He scrambles from the truck, flicking the safety off his gun, raising it to his sightline as he rounds the back of the truck, looking around. Decha comes up from underneath the step-up to land a solid punch on the side of his face before Eggsy even knows he's there. 

Eggsy wildly throws out his arm, the grip on his gun weak due to the blood leaking through the dirty rag and the numbness in his fingers. He manages to land a blow on Decha’s neck, enough to get out of Decha’s reach.

Every breath feels like it rips from his lungs, a ragged pull that scrapes his throat raw, makes his chest ache. He can taste the salt and tin of blood in his mouth, dripping down the back of his tongue.

Decha lunges at him, knife out; Eggsy deflects the attack with his arm, Decha glancing off of him with barely a blow. It goes like this for some time, Eggsy grappling with the quick-footed man with nothing to lose: Decha lunges with a screeching laugh, wildly stabs his knife at any part of Eggsy he can.

A panic wells in him: he is running out of time. All his months here lived day to day, minute by minute. He forgot how to live any other way. But with the end so close, the chance to be out of here so near, he can’t help but focus on that. On getting home, of being out of this, of not having to live like this anymore. He can’t imagine a different kind of life, not in this moment, and he wants nothing more. 

Eggsy sidesteps a swipe of Decha’s blade, landing on his back leg. Decha manages to close the gap between them, catching Eggsy in the ribs with his fist, over and over. A sharp, cutting pain courses through him on the final punch and Eggsy's doubles over, gasping for breath. Decha drives the small switchblade between the two bottom ribs, one of which Eggsy is sure is at least fractured. His hand falls away, leaving the hilt protruding grotesquely from Eggsy’s side

Decha circles him, boots crunching against the gravel. He stops in front of Eggsy, dusty boots right in Eggsy’s sight. Eggsy closes a trembling fist around the blade and yanks it out, biting down on his cheek. He lets the blade tumble from his hand, blood from the blade staining the dirt.

Decha’s thick fingers wrench into Eggsy’s hair, roughly pushing his head back so Eggsy is forced to look up.

_You let me live,_ Decha says, _and we both walk away._

Eggsy thinks of all the girls, the ones he didn’t know, the ones with bruises on their cheeks and busted fingers and giving up their wrists like a gift. He thinks of the one who spat on him, no fear in her. He thinks of Dean and all the years he thought he shouldn’t fight back, that things would be better if he didn’t. The boys from the streets he tried to protect and couldn’t.

He thinks of Perry, probably long gone by now. How Decha probably knows where he is. How he could take Decha back to Kingsman; how they could extract everything they need from him. Maybe for a price: price of freedom, exemption, anonymity.

Looking at Decha, Eggsy knows he knows this. And Eggsy knows that this could make up for the fact that he lost Perry.

Eggsy’s gun is still in his cut, bloodied hand. He thinks he has enough strength left—as fast as he can, he raises his gun, shoves the muzzle into Decha’s gut. _No_ , he snarls and pulls the trigger.

_\- -_

His vision is swimming by the time he pulls up to the air strip, twenty-three minutes after the agreed upon time. In a daze, he puts the truck in park. Pats down his pockets absently and straightens the blood-soaked rag on his hand. His shirt is tacky, stuck to his skin, the blood warm and trailing down his side.

_Shit._ Lamorak stubs the cigarette out underneath the toe of his Oxford before rushing over to where Eggsy shuffles from the truck, holding his left side where Decha had got his blade in. _Holy shit—I thought this was a soft extraction. What the bloody hell happened to you?_

_Plans changed,_ Eggsy hisses through clenched teeth.

Lamorak wraps Eggsy’s arm around his shoulder; but Lamorak is taller than him by at least a few inches and the awkward angle pulls on his tender, sore ribs. He cries out weakly, stumbling as Lamorak moves him towards the plane.

_Jesus—how bad did you get it?_

Eggsy can only grunt in response.

Lamorak practically hauls Eggsy up the stairs to the plane, Eggsy’s toes hitting each step on the way up, sending a reverberating throb through him that amplifies and aggravates every pinpoint of pain. Lamorak tries to set Eggsy gently down on the nearest chair but when his grip loosens the slightest amount, Eggsy collapses, folding in on himself, groaning pitifully.

He can hear Lamorak moving around the plane, muffled frantic orders called to the cockpit as the engines rumble to life. He hears cupboard doors opening, things moving on shelves, Lamorak muttering to himself.

_Arthur is not going to be happy with you,_ Lamorak says when he comes back to Eggsy’s side. Eggsy watches him through lidded eyes as he sets down a bottle of vodka, a first aid kit and towels.

Eggsy groans again, shifting in the chair. _He’s gonna be pissed,_ Eggsy clarifies _._ He pulls weakly at his shirt, tries to squirm his way up the chair so Lamorak can get to his stab wound. _My side—don’t think it’s real deep—_

_Take it easy—Christ, through the ribs? You’re lucky it didn’t get very far._

As the plane takes off, Lamorak swaying slightly from the mild turbulence, he douses as towel in the vodka and presses it without warning to Eggsy’s side. Eggsy flinches, instinctively covering his hand over Lamorak’s. They share a brief, confounded, worried look before Lamorak pulls his hand out from under Eggsy’s, reminding him to keep holding the towel. He deftly unwinds a tensor bandage with one hand while tearing open a pack of hemostatic gauze; he packs the small wound on Eggsy’s side, careful to wrap the bandage in a way that doesn’t put pressure on his ribs. He does the same on the cut hand, unwrapping the rag, pressing a clean towel to the wound before covering it in gauze and bandages.

Lamorak leaves Eggsy there with a blister pack of codeine and a bottle of water, apologizing that there isn’t anything stronger; he takes the bottle of vodka before Eggsy can make a grab for it, both of them exchanging stubborn glares. Eggsy waves him off, swallows the chalky tablets down, settling gingerly back into his seat.

_I don’t need you going into a coma on top of everything else._

Eggsy makes a face, shaking his head against the seat. _Worry too much._

_Try to get some sleep._

Eggsy scoffs, unable to open his eyes to look at Lamorak.

_I’m going to contact Merlin. Tell him we’re in the air._

Eggsy forces his eyes open. The strained look on Lamorak’s face tells him everything. _You don’t gotta tell him._

_You know I do,_ Lamorak says wearily. _You weren’t supposed to show up with stab wounds, covered in blood. Merlin and Arthur need to be notified. Medical needs to be waiting for us at the bridge when we arrive._

Eggsy mumbles something he knows is unintelligible, turning over in his seat slightly.

_You’re lucky_ , Lamorak says, his voice fading.

Eggsy passes out, on the edge of a fuzzy empty place, before he can tell Lamorak that he knows that.


	7. Chapter 7

Eggsy wakes slowly, crawling from the bleary expanse of a drug-induced sleep. He tries to raises his hand to rub at his face only to find it encumbered with tubes, wires and monitor clips. More than that, there is a warm weight resting over his fingers, holding him in a gentle embrace.

He looks lazily around the room, trying not to move his head, a headache threatening to flare up at the base of his skull—the soft blue lights of Kingsman medical rooms at night, gentle beeps of his heart rate monitor and ticking of the IV stand at his side, the walls lined with medical supplies and the far wall with the screen, all black save for the green insignia in the middle.

There’s a sniff—soft sleep sounds and shifting fabric—at his side. The warm weight on his hand moves, curls around his fingers in an insistent pressure. Eggsy cranes his head to the side, noticing a white box underneath a vase spilling over with a bouquet of flowers—he vaguely recognizes daisies and peonies—on the table, before he looks down to the side of his bed.

There, with his head resting on the bed beside Eggsy’s leg and bent over at what had to be an uncomfortable angle from the chair he is sitting on, is Harry. There's an arresting, suffocating feeling that wraps around his chest at the sight of him—broad shoulders hunched to his ears, a knit cardigan instead of a suit jacket; his hair, lighter at the temples with streaks of grey, still combed and parted; his glasses folded and set off to the side.

Months— _months_ since Eggsy had seen him and he still looks achingly the same. And so different. 

Eggsy watches as Harry slowly wakes, his fingers closing around Eggsy’s once again unconsciously. Harry rubs his thumb across Eggsy’s knuckles sleepily, blinking at where their hands meet, a tired, worried smile on his face.

Eggsy shifts, just barely, and Harry’s gaze snaps to him, alarmed; then, startled, amazed.

 _Eggsy—you’re awake_. He sits up suddenly; his hand slips from Eggsy’s and Eggsy finds himself impulsively reaching out, seeking the warmth of Harry.

Eggsy nods, opens his mouth to speak but finds himself coughing, throat dry and tight.

 _Oh_ —Harry turns in the chair, reaching for a pitcher of water and a cup. He fills it hastily, holding it out for Eggsy to take a drink from. Eggsy reaches up with his other hand, covering Harry’s fingers with his own. He runs the tips of his fingers over the back of Harry’s hand, tracing the outline of his fingers, remembering with a longing and an old familiarity of what Harry had felt like, now getting used to the sight of each other once again. 

They stay like that for a moment longer than needed before Harry sits back, cup still in hand, and Eggsy drops his hand back to his leg.

 _Thanks_ , Eggsy says, sitting back into the bed. 

Harry nods, turning his gaze down. _I wanted to see you_. Harry sets the cup down, smooths his hands across the blanket alongside Eggsy’s hand; he looks tired, apologetic almost for his presence. Eggsy is unable to think of what to say, what to feel. _Make sure you're alright._

_How long I been out?_

Harry rubs at his face, sighs, checks his watch. _About twenty-three hours. Much needed, I would say._

Harry is keeping a careful distance from Eggsy now; and this distance brings to light just what was left between them and now Eggsy feels awkward, foolish, for craving Harry's warmth so badly. He wonders how he can ask Harry to leave without being rude, or hint that Harry should leave—but even when he wants to be left alone, he still doesn't want Harry to go. 

_They had to sedate you. When you landed, you were—uncooperative._

_Uncooperative? Like how?_

_You punched Lamorak in the face._

_Oh._

_I brought you some—well, here—_ Harry leans over, picks up the white box. Eggsy sees now it has a stamp from Kiva’s Bakery on it—a bakery not too far from Harry's that he had become fond of. Harry sets the box on his lap, smiling around an expectant anticipation; Eggsy peeks inside to see babka, rugelach, mini honey cakes, macaroons. _They're still your favourite, aren't they? I always found it nice have something comforting… familiar, after a long mission._

Eggsy nods, closing the top of the box. He looks up at Harry. _Has anyone called my mum?_

_She's been informed you are back. She's not allowed to come—_

Eggsy nods his head, drops it back onto the pillow with a sigh. _Yeah, yeah, I know. Not allowed in the room._

Now that he is sitting up, Eggsy can see Harry better. And he is shocked by how different Harry looks: he looks bleary but well-rested, alert; his hands, resting on the edge of the bed, do not shake as Eggsy remembers; his skin has lost the grey, dull look it had before, that Eggsy had remembered him most with. 

_Merlin said you would be out within a day_ , Harry tells him with a small smile trying to be reassuring. _She knows you're here._

Eggsy narrows his eyes, the unmistakable feeling of something stoppering up in his chest. _Merlin let you in here?_

 _No_ , Harry admits. _Technically, I'm not allowed in here, either._

 _You should go_ , Eggsy says quickly, his tongue thick in his mouth. Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to be alone, without anyone, for all the distance that could possibly exist between him and Harry to be there. 

The look on Harry's face, for one moment, is horrific—hurt and understanding and denial—before he schools it into an affable expression. He stands from the chair, patting his legs, looking around as if he might have left something behind. 

_Eggsy, I—_ Harry falters for a moment, so unlike him, _if there's anything I can do or… or say, please—let me know._

Eggsy closes his eyes. _I'm tired, Harry._

 _Yes. Of course. You need your rest_. Harry hesitates; then, he reaches out, grasping Eggsy around the wrist, fingers pressed gently into his rapid pulse—Eggsy’s heart is pounding up his throat, into his mouth, drumming through the back of his head. _I'm so very glad to see you again._

Before Eggsy can say anymore, Harry is gone from the room, the bakery box still on his lap, the vase of flowers by his bedside. 

\- -

He picks at the honey cakes while Freya looks him over, tutting over his monitor, slipping a new bag of morphine on his IV stand. Eggsy offers her a rugelach, which she takes without looking, typing her notes onto the screen, the pastry hanging from her mouth, glaze crumbling down the front of her white coat.

 _Thanks for this_ , she says as she stands by the door. She takes a small bite and says around a mouthful, _Merlin’s coming to debrief you in a few._

 _What?_ Eggsy croaks, almost choking on his of cake. _Right now? Freya, can't you just tell him I'm sleeping or something?_

 _You be glad it's not Arthur._ She waves her half eaten rugelach at him in farewell before slipping out the door. 

Eggsy spends a few quiet, strained minutes purposefully chewing his pastry despite his sudden declining appetite, replaced now with an uncertainty building like rapid, whirling eddies in his gut. He sweeps the crumbs off his lap just as Merlin slides into the room, looking down at his tablet in pinched concentration. 

Eggsy waits for Merlin to say something but minutes pass and Merlin doesn't look up to meet his frustrated gaze, doesn't even acknowledge that Eggsy is in the room. He is typing fervently into his tablet, pausing to press a finger to his lips in consideration before he continues. 

Eggsy watches this in irritated silence, annoyance bristling across his tired body until he feels wound so tight by Merlin’s domineering presence that when Merlin drags a stool over from the corner to set at the foot of his bed, Eggsy visibly flinches, his hand curling into a fist on his lap. 

Merlin gives him a casual look of surprise; he leans forward slightly, tablet resting between his parted knees. 

_Well—welcome home, Gawain. I hope you are rested and doing well._

Now, Eggsy can see Merlin better—his pinched look isn't so much from concentration than it is seemingly from exhaustion. His eyes, dim and drained from their usual clearness, are an irritated red around the edges. 

_Wake you up from your beauty sleep?_ Eggsy asks. If he didn't know better, he actually would think Merlin sneered at him, a brilliant flash of righteous disdain before Merlin looks just the same as ever. 

_Arthur has some pressing concerns—_

Eggsy sighs heavily. _Not interested._

Merlin blinks at him. _Pardon?_

 _Not interested._ Eggsy raises his hand, gesturing to both of them, settling it back onto the bed. _In this conversation._

The fierce gaze of Merlin’s sudden scrutiny makes Eggsy shift in discomfort, looking down to his fingers as they bunch up in the thin blanket covering him. 

_Well, that is tough shit, Eggsy,_ Merlin reprimands, his tone sharp and unforgiving. Eggsy can’t look at Merlin, embarrassment and anger churning in him. _You defied direct orders from Arthur. As charming as you think your arrogance is, whatever you think you can get away with—we have a code we follow. A rule of ethics._ Merlin scoffs; then he adds, almost cruelly, _Not even Harry defied those basic amendments._

Eggsy's gaze snaps up to Merlin's—he expects Merlin to bow out, to be looking back to his tablet to avoid the fallout from those words, but Merlin meets his gaze readily. 

_What's that got to do with me?_ Eggsy snaps. _His actions got fuck all to do with me—don't you dare use him against me, Merlin. You ain't go no fucking right to bring Harry into any of this—_ Eggsy slumps heavily back against the bed. _God._

Merlin doesn't say anything but his composed sense of authority seems to fracture; his hand tightening over his knee, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. His unrelenting stare seems to go blank for a moment, leaden and staring off into the middle distance, before he nods and clears his throat, placing his tablet back on his lap. 

_I'm sorry but you have to answer for it. If you’re lucky, this won’t go to the table._

_What? Go to the table?_

Merlin doesn't look up from where he's typing, doesn't pause. _Arthur has discussed the possibility of a tribunal._

_Like a judge and jury kind of thing?_

_More or less. You will have the opportunity to present your justification for your actions to the rest of the agents and it is left to a vote whether you will remain a knight._

Eggsy scrambles to sit up, choking down a cry at his battered body's protests and his inattention to it. _You're gonna leave my fate in the hands of a bunch of rich arseholes? Who've got no idea what I went through over there?_

_They will have your completed mission report to peruse, which I recommend you fill out sooner than later—_

_You know it ain't the same fucking thing!_ Eggsy shouts.

Merlin, still poised over his tablet and finger hovering just above the screen, looks genuinely startled. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit sorry.

 _They've got no idea—_ Eggsy shakes his head, finds himself digging his knuckles into his leg— _no fuckin' clue what it was like over there. What I had to do_ , he explains weakly, unable to focus on Merlin’s contrite expression. 

But he even he knows that's not entirely true. That, in some way or another, all the agents had most likely faced their own demons on missions like this. But it doesn't alleviate the fact that, in a lot of ways, he's still living it, still fighting those demons off. 

_Which is why you are given the chance to explain your choice of actions_. Merlin stands from the stool, folding his hand and tablet under his arm. _Consider yourself fortunate Arthur isn't keen on dealing with this himself. He would be far less kind._

 _Funny how you're not the first person to say that to me today_ , Eggsy mutters. 

_Say what?_

_That I'm lucky._

Merlin’s face softens, his shoulders going slack. _You are, Eggsy. Incredibly so._

Eggsy can only nod, eyes locked on where his fist is still pressed into the rumpled sheets beside his legs. He doesn't look up when the door shuts with a soft click, the steady beep of the monitor beside him letting Eggsy know that he is perfectly fine.

\- -

Gwen is sitting on the end of his bed, legs crossed, cheek resting on her fist, studying him. She had entered with a polite knock, a smile and _Congratulations, welcome home._

Eggsy sits with his own legs pulled in, uncomfortably so, his knees already aching, head bent down to stare at his lap. 

_I just wanted to come check on you. See how you are._

_Tell me I'm lucky?_ Eggsy asks.

_Do you think you are?_

He regrets saying it, deciding now he doesn't want to answer that question, or have this conversation. 

_We’ll be setting up some appointments together._ She has her hand resting between them on the bed sheet, like she meant to reach for him but pulled back, an awkward abortive gesture. _A few days to rest and then we can talk._

He doesn't want to talk. He wants to tell her this, with the sick gnawing sensation that churns through him, knocking against all the tender and bruised hidden corners, stumbling like a giant and leaving a path of destruction through his stubborn resolve. It makes him compliant, exhausted, and though not willing, he will do as asked just because—it's what he's always done. For this long, day to day, to survive to nightfall. 

It got him this far. Why should he stop now?

\- -

Roxy bursts into the room the next morning while he's trying to get dressed. He’s leaning precariously against the back of the chair, trying to gingerly wiggle his foot down the leg of his trackies while also trying not pull at his stitches on his side, or put strain on his already sore ribs. 

_You absolute fucking pillock!_ She looks terrifying, absolutely thunderous, an accusing finger pointed at his pitiful form: bent over at an awkward angle, standing with only one leg in. 

_Christ, Roxy, you could've knocked_ , Eggsy gasps, dropping the trackies to the floor, wincing at sharp pain shooting up his side when stands up fully. 

Roxy huffs, eyebrows arching before she crosses her arms and turns from him. _I don't even want to look at you._

 _Yeah,_ Eggsy concedes, _guess I deserve that._

_Bloody fucking right you do! I can't believe you would run off like that—_

_I did not run off!_ Eggsy protests. _I took a mission._

 _Oh, you did so!_ Roxy snaps, rounding back on him. _You shouldn't have taken it at all. I don't know why Arthur let you go._

 _I was cleared to go_ , Eggsy says indignantly. 

Roxy just rolls her eyes. _And then you pull a stunt like that—_

 _Pull a stunt?_ Eggsy stares at her with a mix of hurt and disbelief. _I was doing my job._

_Completely outside of Kingsman protocol! There is a reason these things are put in place. It's for your safety as much as it is for the good of the agency._

_Yeah, well._ Eggsy bends down to grab up his pants, despite the burning pain flaring up along his entire left side, and pulls them on with sharp, jerking movements. _What's done is done._

Roxy stands quietly as she watches him. She asks, after a moment, almost sadly, _What in the hell were you thinking?_

 _I dunno_. Eggsy shrugs, sitting down on the bed. He tucks his hands underneath his legs. _Maybe I wasn't._

 _What, you thought you were being all clever, that no one knew what was really going on?_ Roxy jabs a finger to her chest. _I knew, Eggsy!_

 _I'm sorry_ , Eggsy says on an exhale—and he really is. _Rox, I'm sorry._

Her anger seems to escape her now, her stance losing its rigidity. Her hands fall to her side; she rocks slightly from foot to foot, as if unsure of herself. _I was scared, you absolute bastard_ , she says.

 _I know. I'm sorry, I really am sorry._ Eggsy looks up at her with a timid smile. Then, he gestures for her to come over, pats the bed. _Hey—come here. Come on._

With some reluctance, as if she wants to retain some of her simmering irritation but decides it not worth the effort, Roxy comes to sit beside him, wrapping her arms around his waist, careful not to hold on too tight. Eggsy leans into her once she's settled, hesitating himself before pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She makes a soft noise of surprise; then, she hums gently, burying her face into his shoulder. 

_I missed you_ , Eggsy murmurs into her hair after some time passes. 

_If you had gotten hurt or worse_ , Roxy replies rather shortly, the words muffled into his shirt, _I would have killed you myself._

Eggsy laughs. _Good to know you missed me, too._

 _Of course I did._ She pulls back to look properly at him, her gaze both searching and sympathetic. _I think that much is obvious. It doesn't mean I can't be absolutely cross with you._

 _I'm sorry—_ Eggsy starts and then has to swallow the guilt, that threatens to unravel him— _for not telling you._

_You're lucky I love you, Eggsy._

That, he can believe he is lucky for. 

_Love you, too, Rox,_ he says. 

She pushes herself up, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her breath tickles his neck, along the back of his hair, the steady rise and fall of chest. The closeness of her, her hands laced together across his hip, overwhelms him suddenly. That he is here, he is home: the realization of it grips him with a terrible kind of sadness that winds its way around his heart, blooms with sickening speed into his chest and overtakes him. 

Roxy must anticipate this because he feels her slack grip tighten, and she asks, _Who got you the flowers? They're nice._

 _Harry._ Eggsy turns his head, wipes at his cheeks with the back of his hands. _I think._

Roxy mulls over this, her chin digging into her shoulder blade when she talks. _He's come to see you already?_

_Yeah._

_Oh. Well, that's good._ She settles back in, dropping her cheek back to his chest, sounding pleased. _I'm glad._

\- -

He is released from medical later that day with orders of bed rest and to check in through his glasses. Freya walks with him to the lift when he firmly refuses a wheelchair. While she doesn't take his arm, despite his slowed gait and unmistakable favouring of his left side, the way she matches his pace let's him know she's there if he needs it. 

Michelle is waiting for him when he gets home, standing in the door frame with Daisy—now all legs and arms and messy blonde hair—at her hip. 

_They told me you was coming home today,_ Michelle says, her lip quivering. She takes a deep breath and Eggsy finds himself unable to really breathe at all, just for a second. _Oh, Eggsy._ Michelle reaches forward with her free arm, pulling him into an embrace. _Good to be home, yeah?_

_Yeah._

_Daisy, baby, say hi to your brother._

Daisy peeks at him from where she has her face half-buried in Michelle’s arm, searching his face like she is trying to place him in her memory. The withdrawn, shy look on her face threatens to cave Eggsy's chest in with dismay—she doesn't recognize him. Or she does and, in the stubborn and disquieting way children have, refuses to acknowledge him in retribution. She shakes her head, muttering a sharp _no_ , and turns further into Michelle’s arm so Eggsy can only see the back of her head. 

_Oh, don't be like that_ , Michelle whispers, her voice cracking; she clears her throat, speaking into Daisy’s ear: _You missed him so much, didn't you?_ Michelle looks at him, an apologetic smile on her face. _She asked after you just about every day. Poor girl, she didn't understand._

Eggsy tenses and his hand slips from where it was resting on Michelle’s elbow. Michelle looks abashed, ducking her head down, a hand rubbing soothing circles on Daisy’s back. 

It's not that Eggsy blames her for saying it—it only puts into view his own shortcomings, his inability to tell them everything with the justification that it's better for everyone this way. That he left, with little in the way of explanation or reason, and shows up again like a ghost on their doorstep. 

_Come inside, no use standing in the door. You must be starving._

There's a pot of hot tea on the kitchen counter, a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches beside it. The windows are thrown wide open, the summer breeze drifting through the house with a gentle warmth and the scent of honeysuckles from the back garden. 

He drinks the tea but doesn't eat much, the box of pastries Harry had left him sitting heavy in his stomach. Michelle sits beside him, her hand resting on his forearm as they talk idly of nothing in particular: the end of Daisy’s school year and the weather and the garden, successfully skirting what both of them most want to discuss but neither can bring themselves to put words to it, the conversation shuddering to an awkward lull whenever it seems to approach the topic of all the time Eggsy was gone. Every so often, her hand will move down his arm, clutching into his elbow or around his wrist. A reminder to them both, a much needed reassurance they don't address, that he is here.


	8. Chapter 8

Eggsy doesn't see Harry for another week, even though he's spending more time at HQ than he thought he would be for someone who is supposed to be on mandated rest. 

He asks, in passing to Lamorak one morning on the shuttle, in a roundabout way while picking at non-existent threads on the seats, if Harry would be around. Lamorak had fixed him with a questioning stare, glancing up from where he had been frowning at his phone. 

_He's taken off to Laos. There's rumours of Perry hiding there._

Eggsy tries to start to say something a few times, but seems to come up short each time. By the time he's resolved not to say anything, Lamorak is staring back at his phone. 

Eggsy doesn't ask again. 

It's a blur of physicals with medical, mission debriefs with Arthur that stretch into long hours and sometimes over the course of days, interspersed with appointments with Gwen in the east-facing room watching the ducks float around the pond and collapsing on the couch in his office, drained and unable to do much but lay with his eyes closed in the middle of the day, hands covering his face to block the light coming in through the windows he was too exhausted to drawn the blinds on. 

It's harder to sleep now, despite the stinging at the corners of his eyes and his sluggish, delayed reactions to everything on the back of a week of broken sleep. He lays down at night, body defeated and exhausted, but it eludes him, always bringing him to the cusp of deep rest before violently wrenching him back to wakefulness, heart hammering in the back of his throat for just a moment before he slumps back into his bed with resignation. 

He thinks to tell Freya this but he can't seem to find a way to tell her; he knows it will cause a whole other set of problems they will want him to work through. He has six weeks of strictly limited physical activity on Freya’s orders, two months of R&R with frequent therapy sessions on Gwen’s recommendation and subsequently approved by Arthur; he will have to go through a rash of medical, physical and psychological tests before he can be allowed back into the field. With the tribunal waiting like a dark cloud on the horizon, that timeline could be pushed back even further, or made indefinite. 

He tells himself, it will just take some time. He's just adjusting, getting back into routine. It's a non-issue; bouts of insomnia were second nature to Kingsman agents. He thinks, there's no point in worrying anyone, with his already prolonged tests and evaluations and unnecessary medication. 

Most days, he meets Roxy for lunch. The first hectic week he's back, she's in between missions, researching for a sting operation in Indonesia the following week, available most times of the day for him to drop by when he's not busy with his own appointments or hiding away in the quiet of his office. 

In her time off, she dresses down—it always takes Eggsy by surprise, though he's come to expect this of her in their down time. Today, her hair is pulled into a bun on top of her head, wearing a plain shirt and a pair of her black yoga pants. There is a pale blue cardigan draped over the arm of the chair. She’s sitting cross-legged on the wing-back chair in her office, bending over a pile of intel and research spread out on the coffee table in front of her. She's reading with a rapt attention that she doesn't seem to notice Eggsy coming into the room. He raps on the open door with his knuckles, her head popping up with a startled expression. 

_Alright there, Rox?_

She drags a hand over her face. _Yes._ She sighs and falls back into the chair, throwing the pen she was holding onto the pile of papers. _No. If I have to read one more paragraph of this man’s self-flagellation over his brilliant theory on human eugenics, I may gouge out my own eyeballs._

 _Aw, now don't do that_ , Eggsy teases. _Merlin would have to write you up for damaging Kingsman property._

Roxy pulls a face but smiles nonetheless. _What's for lunch today? We could bring something back here, sit out on the balcony. I think Bors is attempting the tracks again._

Eggsy shrugs, leaning against the door frame. _Thought we could grab something and take a walk round the grounds. Sick of sitting in this place._

Roxy grins at him, eyes glittering. _Look at you, all romantic._

Something painful lurches in Eggsy's chest and he has to tighten his arms across his chest, as if the feeling will burst through and spill out across the floor between them, pressing and suffocating pressure inside and out. 

_Yeah, whatever._ Roxy gives him a wary, remorseful look and Eggsy fixes a smile on his face. _Anyway, you_ _up for it? Don't wanna pull you away from your thrilling read._

Roxy nods, pushing herself from the chair. She twines her arm through Eggsy's; they walk the entire way like that, arm in arm, down to the communal kitchens. Roxy puts together the sandwiches while Eggsy searches the cupboards for packets of crisps, tossing them and a plastic container of cherries from the counter into a canvas bag. In the back of the fridge, Roxy produces a bottle of sparkling cider; she waggles her eyebrows as she drops the sandwiches into the bag as she saunters out of the room. 

By the time they get out onto the grounds, they are laughing, talking loudly over each other, Roxy coming up behind him, bottle tucked underneath her curled arm. He's looking back at her, getting her to repeat something she had said that he hadn't heard over when he had bound ahead of her, when he runs into Harry—actually runs into him, Eggsy caught looking behind him urging to Roxy to catch up with a laugh, and he walks right into Harry. 

The entire situation is ridiculous: Eggsy jolting back, temporarily stunned by the collision; Harry reaching out to steady him, an astonished look on his face. Eggsy is confused, then flustered as he hears Roxy jog to catch up to him and catches Percival’s glint of menacing curiosity, then turning mortified when Harry asks, concern plain in his tone, _Eggsy, are you okay?_

His cheek smarts, where it had collided with Harry's shoulder, but Eggsy just rubs madly at it, feeling his face grow hot. _Yeah, yeah, I'm fine._

_I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there._

Roxy is standing beside him now, looking between Harry, Eggsy and Percival with uncertainty. 

_Well, that was something_ , Percival comments dryly. 

Eggsy doesn't really catch the look passed between Harry and Percival when Harry looks back at the man; whatever it is, it causes Harry drop his hand from Eggsy's elbow, leaving Eggsy feeling rather hollow, his skin tingling through the thin layer of his hoodie where Harry's hand had been. 

Eggsy hefts the bag further over his shoulder; he can't help but think that the cherries are bruised, the sandwiches squashed. There's the sudden memory of the day laying out in the atrium with Harry, the hazy blue of the pool lights casting Harry in beautiful shifting shadows, Harry's fingers tracing his collarbone, the daring confession that still sometimes made him catch his breath, taken back by how different it had all been—it seems odd to think of it now, with Harry right in front of him. Like the recollection is now vulnerable, put on display, and he wonders if Harry if thinking of it, too. 

_Lancelot,_ Percival says, sharp gaze moving between Harry and Eggsy with interest before turning to address Roxy. _I have something I'd actually like to discuss with you. If you would?_

Eggsy nods for her to go on when Roxy gives him a helpless look. _I'll catch up with you._

She gives him one final glance over her shoulder before she follows Percival back towards the western side of the mansion, leaving Harry and Eggsy standing stiffly in front of each other, Eggsy fumbling with the straps of the bag now digging into his shoulder, Harry watching him with diffident concern.

_I apologize._

_It's really fine, Harry. My fault for not watching where I was going._

_Neither was I._

Eggsy shrugs, scuffing his foot against the grass; then feeling foolish for even being unable to look Harry in the eye. 

The ensuing confusion that came with waking to Harry at his bedside had not eased with distance granted in the past week. Eggsy had hoped he would have this sorted, a better handle on what he felt for Harry now that he was back but it was a constant pendulum swing, sliding from one extreme to the other multiple times a day: long-lived remorse that somehow makes things harder to say the longer they are left unsaid; a deliberate refusal to think of him, a mad attempt to deny it and Harry’s existence all at once, as if it never happened; the escalation of the hurt and cruel words still sitting just the underneath the surface; sudden, desperate, overwhelming need to have Harry's hands in his once again. 

It's not made any easier, standing in the place where this all started for them, evolved and burgeoned into something he could not untangle so easily from himself. What they had was so inexplicably tied into Kingsman, into what it all had to come to mean to him, that even with months away, Eggsy knows now that he will not be able to set foot into Kingsman without it somehow coming back to Harry and who he is. Then again, Eggsy's not entirely sure if he wants to sever that final thread, seemingly the only thing keeping them from completely and finally drifting apart. 

Even like this, wary of what Harry has to offer and what has become of them with the months carved out between them like a deep crater, the love he has for him is still there, just as bright and fervent as it always has been—but separated from him, as if peering at it from behind a glass. And though it is not unreachable, he knows he does not yet have the energy to fight his way towards it, to drag it back to the surface, nurture and tend to it and let Harry have it back. 

( _You throw away your greatest opportunity for a fucking dog. Know your place._ The secrecy, the pale dim light in his eyes, the tremors in his hands, the stale-sour whiskey breath in the middle of the night. These things stay in him and rise to the surface when he doesn't want them, reminding him when he thinks he would want to see Harry again, to go back to the way it was, to try again.)

He's spent so much time wanting to divide that part of himself, to leave it in the past, the part of him that loved Harry that it consumed him wholly, that to come back now—it feels false, almost vulgar, to ask for it all back. 

_I see your recovery is going well,_ Harry states.

Eggsy looks at his bandaged hand: only a light gauze is wrapped around it now, having had it stitched together and it's really only there because he can't seem to stop scratching at it. _Yeah, I guess. Already feel like I'm going a bit mental, what with all the appointments and meetings._

Harry nods in polite agreement. _All too common, I'm afraid. Unfortunately, once the meetings end, the boredom sets in._

_Yeah. Never thought of that._

_Well, luckily it is summer. Lots to do with your time._

The conversation abruptly trails off there, leaving them in a strange, forced silence. Eggsy shifts nervously on his feet, glancing over Harry's shoulder, maybe in hopes of seeing Roxy and Percival coming back together to fill the gap. When he looks back to Harry, he knows instantly that Harry noticed this: the dismay is barely hidden on his features, once confident and self-assured, now baring all.

Chastened and desperate to not let Harry leave, Eggsy says, _Lamorak says you've been out in the field again._

_Ah—yes, I was cleared two weeks ago. Test runs, for now._

_That's—good. Good for you._ Eggsy clears his throat; his shoulder is growing sore. _I'm glad. Happy for you._

 _Thank you, Eggsy._ A range of emotions cross Harry’s face before he asks, rather unexpectedly, _Can I cook supper for you one night?_

Stupefied, Eggsy gapes dumbly at Harry for a minute before he mumbles, _Uh, yeah—yeah, okay._

 _Some of your things are still at home—_ Harry’s looks down, a self-conscious motion that takes Eggsy even more by surprise— _at the house._

That Harry refers to it as home, as if Eggsy is still part of it, makes him ache. 

_Supper would be good, yeah. Thanks, Harry._

_Excellent._ Harry straightens his shoulders, seems more at ease than he had been before. He looks as if he's about to reach out again, his hand hovering at his chest—but he curls his fingers into a loose fist, a wistful look on his face and he tucks the fist into his trouser pocket. _Let me know what works for you._

Eggsy nods, feeling as if his head is on a bobble and attached by a string with someone yanking the other end, and watches Harry continue on his way across the lawn. Like a bright, pulsating light, the crisp line of his suit across his broad shoulders and tapered waist, the quick-footed lightness to his step, all at once odd for his refinement but just as unerringly graceful, the casualness with which he ascends the steps drawing Eggsy’s attention, watching him as a vague misgiving works it’s way into his choice of saying yes. 

It's not until Harry has disappeared around the corner that Eggsy is distinctly aware of the ring sitting in his back pocket; a habit burrowed deep upon his return, the unintended mainstay that he keeps coming back to, even when just the sight of it on his dresser in the mornings—catching the light from the window as he passes it, toothbrush hanging from his mouth or shrugging on his shirt—the ring seemed to hold a separate, perplexing identity, removed entirely from what he had made it to be, as if a permanent fixture in the past, forever drawing him back and back and back.

\- -

On the rare occasion he does fall into a deep sleep, there’s the nightmares to contend with. 

Frantic, flashing manic dreams where he has that panicked heart-lurching sensation that the ground is giving way beneath his feet, like missing a step and catching yourself before you fall. 

They come as indistinct events that he has no understanding of—floating just beneath the surface of a dark water, standing on some unremarkable street corner waiting to cross, standing in the middle of a garden with unscalable walls jutting into the sky that he has the arresting urge to climb and climb. Or there is the vivid flashbacks so startling and clear that when he wakes, he thinks he's back there, floundering on the vestiges of something so tangible that he claws at his own skin, down his arms, across his face, over his chest in distraught alarm—Danny crunching the candies between his teeth as he talks, shouldering his way down Walking Street at night with his head down and the neon lights reflected in the puddles he steps over, the rumbling of the truck engine and the flapping of the tarp and the staticky music coming over the radio and the crying of the girls in the back above it all. 

He will wake on the beginning of a scream that spirals into a choked-off gasp; he will be terrified, flailing uselessly against his covers, shivering all over with a cold sweat. He will scrub at his face, rub at his grit-filled eyes, turn the digital clock to face away from. JB, from his perch at the end of the bed, will come anxiously snuffling along the comforter, ears perked in apprehension until he finds Eggsy's out-stretched hand, shoving his damp nose into Eggsy's palm. 

Eggsy will stay like there until morning knowing he won't be able to sleep, his hand spread over JB’s small body, where he can feel the rapid, gentle rise and fall of JB’s breathing. 

\- -

_Okay, why don't we start like this? If you can walk me through some places that became familiar to you during your mission, we can work from there._

Gwen had him laying down on the couch, a throw pillow folded beneath his head, hands threaded loosely together on his chest. She had him close his eyes; breathing exercises. In, deep breath in through the nose, through the chest— _feel it expand in your lungs and fill your chest, good_ —and exhale. 

_Can we start with what your hotel room looked like?_

_Uh—_ He has to think, dredging up hazy recollections, like it's going in and out of focus, with indistinct details though he was so accustomed to that room that he could pick it out of dozens of similar ones— _the carpet was this, I dunno, nasty green and brown. All matted down. Real gross by the bathroom door. Probably got all wet there, or something._

_Okay, that's good. What else?_

He screws up his face: the walls, the windows with the thin lace curtains, fluorescent light humming from the bathroom. _I always left the bathroom door open. With the light on._

_Okay. Why did you do that?_

_I dunno. Nice to have a light on, I guess. If I needed to see. Sometimes the street lights would go out and it'd be dark._

_Alright. And what about the bed? The walls? Any personal effects?_

_No personal effects_ , he says, repeating the same guidelines Arthur had reminded him of multiple times. No—that was a lie. _I—there was a calendar. I pinned it to the wall. Marking off the days. Took one month down, put another one up._

_Did that help?_

_Maybe? I guess. I dunno._

_Okay._

_And—_ his hand on his chest drifts down, settles on his pocket, pressing on the outline of the ring still there— _a picture and a ring._

_And what is important about the picture and the ring?_

_Daisy made me the picture. It's of mum and her and me. There's a pink house and this blue sun and all our heads are too big._ Eggsy chuckles and has to stop. _I got blood on it. When I took it out once. I forgot to wash my hands._

_Did you look at it often?_

Eggsy nods, then says, _Actually—not really_. The bloody fingerprint that soaked through the worn paper, run into the fine creases and across a window on the pink house. It was folded, carefully, and hidden in the page of a book he couldn't read, couldn't remember why he picked it up or tried reading it at all: it didn't interest him, about the boy who had lost his mother and drifted aimlessly between arid wastelands and into crowded, noisy city blocks. 

_What about the ring? Is it yours?_

River Seine, the woman who never showed. Rue de Renne. The glass display cases and friendly looks from behind the counter and the glint of dim chandeliers on the silver. Was it last year? Two years ago? He thinks he's had it forever. He can't remember. _I bought it._

_For yourself?_

_No._

_Do you want to tell me who you bought it for?_

Eggsy pulls his hand back from where he had spread his palm over the imprint of the ring through his jeans, placing his hand back on his chest. _Harry_ , he croaks out, when he didn't want to, the word tumbling out of his mouth when he only meant to tell her no. 

_You never gave it to him?_

Eggsy shakes his head. _Never seemed like the right time._

\- -

It’s more like the jarring jolting motion of time, time sliding out underneath him in long uninterrupted stretches, only to be caught back in sudden flashes and flung into ordinary time. 

There's a hazy, sluggish way time trudges on around him that makes the days where he's aware of it that makes everything more vibrant, everything thrown in sharp relief. 

Cross-legged on the grass in the back garden as his mom kneels by the flower bed, a wide-brimmed hat hiding her face as she digs out the weeds with her bare fingers, with his chin turned up so the sun is on his face. Evenings spent walking JB around the block and Daisy holding the lead, the strap wrapped around her wrist, her excited shrieks as JB takes off down the sidewalk, the knowledge of it running straight through him, making him stumble to a halt in the middle of a quiet street and close his eyes. 

Sessions with Gwen where he deftly avoids the point and feels the words detach and float from him, can see them suspended before him, the doors to the balcony thrown open to let in the breeze. She is forthright, throws out _post-traumatic stress_ and _attachment disorder_ , which makes him want to laugh because he's never been attached to anything, not with the life he's lived, even though he knows that's not what it means, not even close. And he tells her this and she just smiles at him and asks him if he's really never been attached to anything—and he knows that's not true, either, not in the slightest. But he gives his bright, charming smile, and laughs and shrugs it off as he always does and she gives him another look, one that carries the distinct impression that this time, that won’t work. Not on her. 

Seated on a table in Freya’s spartan office with the stark white walls and her cold fingers against his bare skin, checking his stitches and mottled bruising and healing ribs. A battery of tests that Eggsy jumps to complete, well-trained and uncomplaining, as he has learned it is far easier to do than sarcastic remarks or beguiled groaning: stress tests, blood pressure, heart rate with her thumb and finger on his wrist, looking at her watch; stethoscope on his bare chest, bare back, lie down flat as she kneads her fingers into his stomach, along his ribs, reflexes and balance and coordination. Last weeks bloodwork: she's not happy with his vitamin and mineral intake, the borderline low BMI and aching joints and persistent headaches he once bothered to mention and now she never stops asking about. She hands off multivitamins and meal supplements in little containers in vanilla, strawberry and chocolate flavours, an economy bottle of melatonin (because she knows he doesn't sleep and he can't convince her he's fine). He takes them dutifully into his arms and says goodbye with a smile on his face, her flat, assessing look following him long after he's left the room. 

Arthur’s stained oak desk and the scritch of his pen against paper and his droning, methodical way he has of talking, the last six months broken down into transcripts and organized spreadsheets detailing his movements, sometimes down to the hour, the ghostly faraway echoes of Danny and Decha and background noise of Jasmine’s Paradise as they replay the recordings, pausing every few minutes to discuss and clarify and write down the transcripts and make amends to the report. All of this, on repeat, that leaves him shaky and nauseous by the time Arthur declares that they've done enough for the day and sends him back out into a world where he's supposed to forget these sickening, disastrous revivals and carry on as he was. 

Merlin’s scrupulous stare when he passes Eggsy briefly in the corridor, on the shuttle, the few times they both are leaving the shop at the same time, a look passed between them and left to linger, unacknowledged.

Sometimes, he has the feeling as if he's only observing himself; like he had come back as two separate entities and he was watching his body move through the motions, that he's six feet apart from who he is, pulling on the strings, all his reactions delayed. 

\- -

A few times, Eggsy has passed Harry in HQ—usually when Eggsy's off towards Roxy’s office, Harry leaving his. Once, when he went to grab something quick to eat between one of his last debriefs with Arthur that ran past it's allotted time and a final follow-up with Freya before she released him from her thorough and unrelenting care ( _for now_ , she always reminded with a tone of warning) and walked in to see Harry by the stove where a kettle was set on one of the burners, arms folded across his chest, leaning back against the counter, almost looking like he had dozed off. But he had looked up quickly when Eggsy moved to the fridge to rifle around in there and when Eggsy had found the courage to look back up, Harry gave him a timid smile that Eggsy found himself mirroring. 

Each time, Harry asked after his recovery and Eggsy told him everything, as usual, was fine. He never bothered Eggsy about supper, keeping their interactions short and polite, a warmth and understanding settling into and defining the space between them. Eggsy wanted more and more to shy away from him with every chance encounter, unable to face him just yet, to admit to his own faulty indecision, mistrust and desire for something he fears he can no longer have. 

It is at the beginning of a meeting two weeks after Harry asked Eggsy to think on supper. Early Wednesday morning, directly following an hour session with Gwen that she magnanimously said was good but one that Eggsy knew just looped in unhelpful circles, he's sitting across from Arthur with his feet crossed before him, watching Arthur swirling cream into his second cup of morning tea. When Arthur sets the spoon down on the plate, he informs Eggsy of the upcoming tribunal. 

It causes Eggsy to sit up straighter, goosebumps rising up the back of his arms, a lump of dread or anxiety lodging firmly in his throat. Eggsy had been warned to anticipate this. As their meetings had gone on, it was heavily hinted that this would be the course of action. Yet, it comes as cold dose of shock and unwanted reality to Eggsy and he sits back in his chair. 

Arthur must sense this; he looks up expectantly, his gaze flickering across Eggsy's face, mildly concerned and impatient. _Don't think of it as facing a chopping block. The importance of being impartial is first and foremost._

_Right._

_I know it can seem daunting,_ Arthur sighs. _Especially if you've never sat on one before. But there must be a common ground amongst the agents, of checks and balances._ His fingers, once threaded together, now spread and fan across the desk. 

Eggsy notices the glint of a gold ring on his hand that he had not seen before. 

_Balances_ , Eggsy repeats. Something much like equilibrium: setting to rights all the things that have been wrong. 

_Yes. I find it the more sensible option to have your peers weigh in on this decision. Transparency is the goal here, Gawain._ Arthur sounds so poised, so enigmatic, and it's rubbing against the grain of Eggsy's already worn-out, frayed nerves. _We are all equal, even in our faults._

 _Right. Only as strong as your weakest link,_ Eggsy counters and it comes out sounding much more self-deprecating than he intended. 

_Of sorts, yes. I suppose. But I do not want to think in terms of strong and weak._ Arthur looks at him, an assessing frankness to his polished competence. _Your fellow agents must trust in you. I must trust in you._

 _Well—you don't, right? Cause I didn't follow your plan. Cause I—_ Eggsy takes a deep breath— _I know that Perry got away. And that it was my fault._

Arthur blinks at him. _Trust is a complicated thing._ Arthur clears his throat and spread his hands across the desk, palms down. Eggsy realizes, maybe a bit belatedly, that Arthur might be nervous. _I have learned over my years within this agency that trust is hard won, hard fought for and easily broken._

Eggsy frowns, looks at his feet. 

_But_ , Arthur amends quickly, _but that does not mean we cannot mend it. There are very few things, I have found, that can completely destroy that bond. Gawain, I am going ask you something and I only ask for your honesty. Do you trust me?_

_No_ , Eggsy says measuredly.

 _Well, then._ Arthur clears his throat politely and looks up at Eggsy. _I hope one day, through my actions, that you will come to trust me._

There's a paperweight on Arthur’s desk; bulbous glass top that refracts the light streaming from the open windows. Eggsy can't stop staring at it. 

_Do you understand what I'm trying to say, Gawain? About trust._

He's back there, outside Pattaya on that dirt road, Decha's man standing over Danny’s body, the lopsided sunglasses pushed up his nose, the muzzle searing his skin, burning a hole through his shirt; the mineral smell of blood and cordite and dust. 

Eggsy answers with a nod and says, _I understand._

Another three weeks before he is to stand before the other agents and state his case, convince them of his worth seemingly once again. Arthur tells him what to expect, how the whole thing will proceed. He has Eggsy review in painstaking detail the key points of his mission; and Eggsy can relay it back to him in a way that feels apart from what he knows he experienced. 

Emerging an hour later, discomfited and blinking into the early afternoon light, he digs his phone from his jeans and brings up Harry's number. 

Typing quicker than he can decide against sending a message at all, he sends: _Your offer for supper still open?_

The response is fast, his mobile giving a cheery ding before he can even lock the screen in sudden embarrassment: _Of course._

There's a moment of hesitation, a sudden vicious tightness in his chest, then a resurgence of—resolve or need or courage when he texts back: _How does Friday sound?_

And he holds his breath, wanting to preserve that flying-high, ecstatic, fluttering of his heart when he reads: _Friday would be perfect._

\- -

Roxy convinces him to walk down to Piccadilly Circus the next afternoon, in search of someplace to take lunch, her arm looped over his elbow as they press into the crowds of lingering tourists and fast-paced locals trying to get to the underground or back to work, the swell of traffic noise and voices barely discernible above the din. Breathless from rushing across Regent Street before the lights changed, they find a spot to sit under the fountain, tucked between a family wearing clean, new souvenir caps with “I Heart London” embroidered on the fronts, a map spread out across their laps, and a chattering group of girls, most likely close to their age, shrieking with laughter and leaning against each other. 

Roxy is just off an intensive four-day mission, staggering dead-eyed about the shop with her folded jacket over her arm, the jacket covered in dust and signed at the hem. He can smell the sulfur and burnt plastic, gunpowder and char, swallowing to taste metallic tin at the back of his throat. She says it's like her nerves and wires get crossed when she lands back home, sleep a far distant thought, so being in the clamour of the city, packed and bumping shoulders with strangers, somehow appeals more to her than a closed off, dark room, quiet and rest and relaxation. She is constantly propelling herself forward, and he knows that feeling intimately, but she somehow seems so much more composed, in control than he could ever be. 

Eggsy tells her about Harry's offer—which sounds far too formal, but the idea of calling it a _date_ makes the word stick in his mouth, unable to come out—and he doesn't even need to voice his hesitation, Roxy picking up on it in his downturned glance, his hands threaded together between his knees, one leg bouncing as he stares out towards Shaftesbury Avenue, out at the illuminated signs towering above them, the constant surge of people coming and going, buses rushing by. 

He still remembers the mineral, sour, intoxicating smell of Walking Street, the sea mingled with cigarette smoke and warm bodies and cooking food wafting from vendors shoved into the small spaces between high-end storefronts and massage parlors lit with red neon. He has to close his eyes, focus on the small details: the steady, insistent drum of vehicle engines and horns, how the wet pavement and exhaust and London air is not the same as Pattaya, how the people move more steadily, with more purpose here. 

_He's got much better since you've been gone,_ Roxy says.

 _Yeah_. Eggsy shifts where he's sitting, let's his hand fall apart. _Yeah, he seems it. Seems—good. Better, anyway._

Roxy nods, pushes her hair back off her face. Someone lays on their horn and they both look over for a minute, grateful for the distraction. 

_He was gone,_ Roxy says, still looking up the street, _up to Manchester, for four weeks._ She looks back at him, like she anticipated the confused look on his face, and when she sees it, explains, _Rehab. Merlin thought it was best to send him away from Kingsman_. _A fresh start. It took Merlin a month to even convince him to go._ She pauses, searching him. _He’s been retraining for full field entry. Not too far off from completion, out on small missions, from what I've heard. He could've taken the expedited course but—well, he told me he wanted to do it properly._

Eggsy digs his heels into the stone steps, careful to avoid the middle aged man sitting in front of him, laden with shopping bags and talking loudly on his phone. There were so many things he didn't know, that Harry still had not told him, things that happened in his absence, things catalogued and shelved, put away to be hopefully taken back down later and sorted through, discussed and looked after. 

And all the things that he had done—no, that could come much later, surely. Those things… left even longer, turned to face into the darkness where he doesn't have to see them, each time he remembers and having it hit him like a sickness. 

_Eggsy,_ Roxy murmurs, almost apologetically. _I think—it will be alright, won't it? Between you two, I mean. It's—well, it’s you and Harry. I always just thought… it was perfect. Like you two were made for each other._

Eggsy looks at her, eyes glazing over for a minute before he blinks. _What?_

She startles slightly, glancing away. _Sorry, I didn't mean to say that it was—I shouldn't have said it like that._

 _It's alright,_ Eggsy mumbles after a long silence which does nothing to lessen the tense set to her shoulders, her rigid back, her rapid head turns to quickly gauge Eggsy's reaction. 

_Right. Okay_ , Roxy says. She stands, brushing off the back of her trousers. _We’ll just—_ she gestures ahead of her— _are you still hungry, at least?_

He's never really hungry, not anymore. The pills and supplements and lukewarm coffee from the communal kitchen at HQ, pots of tea his mum insists on making him and leaving on his nightstand along with toast or a sandwich or slices of fruit he never eats (mostly handed off to JB or Daisy in passing), have seemed to give him just enough energy to get through the day. 

But he stands anyway, wiping down his own jeans, and follows Roxy towards the illuminated signs to cross to Shaftesbury Avenue, catching the distorted reflections of the ads in the rain puddles he purposely steps in, wrecking their rippling backward upside down visage with a strange pleasure. 

They walk far enough down that they find a restaurant not packed with tourists, get a table by the window overlooking the street. Roxy eats ravenously, only pausing to thank the waiter and to remind Eggsy to actually eat; he does take a few bites before it starts to taste bitter and bland, poking lamely at his plate with his fork. Though she looks at him disapprovingly she doesn't comment when he ends up pushing his plate away. 

They round back through Piccadilly Circus, having decided to make the most of having nothing to do for the rest of the day, and head towards The Green Park. They make their way past the ornate blue Devonshire Gates, the grounds beyond the gates littered with people lazing on fold-out chairs and blankets in the afternoon sun, some huddled beneath the shade of the trees, the paths congested with people coming up The Broad Walk from the changing of the guard.

 _Are you ready for the tribunal?_ Roxy asks, taking his arm as they sidestep another surge of tourists making their way back towards the gates. _Arthur called me into his office to explain the process. It all seems rather overwhelming. I can't imagine what it's like for you._

_It's been alright, I guess._

_God, I can't imagine being suspended for that long though. Not even allowed on the training grounds, you said?_ When Eggsy shakes his head in confirmation, Roxy blows out a breath. _I'd be going mental, if I were you._

 _Yeah_ , Eggsy says with a thin laugh, trailing off swiftly when the sound of it becomes depressing for how off key it is. He shrugs one shoulder. _You start to get used to it, you know? All the missions and tests and stuff. Like you need it to feel normal, almost. Even when it's got you all… well, like me._ Like Harry, he wants to say. By the look Roxy gives him, he thinks she knows this, too. 

_Our lives are so strange, aren't they?_ she muses wryly, tilting her head towards him. _Did you ever imagine yourself here, doing what we do for a living, even when you first learned about it all—Kingsman and everything?_

 _No,_ Eggsy says truthfully, shaking his head, _not really._ Because even when Harry had offered him the chance of a lifetime, an opportunity granted out of nowhere, and he had taken it out of excitement and with nothing else to lose, he never envisioned himself doing this until he realized he couldn't shoot JB and he had the one last chance to make something of himself ripped out from underneath him. 

_I used to come here all the time, you know, from the time I was a kid. My uncle would bring me and my cousin's to the Changing the Guard once school was out for the summer._ She yawns, covering her hand with her fist, shaking her head as her eyes begin to water. _Did you ever?_

_Yeah, actually. Once, my dad brought me._

Now that he's here, he recalls it vividly, the time he had come here: sitting on his dad’s shoulder—he must have been on leave—peering over the heads of the crowd (they had been late, missed the connecting train, Eggsy’s shoe untied, he was hungry and he was tired and he didn't want to go) to watch the uniformed men marching in unison, enthralled by the sea of red jackets and the reverent hush that had fallen over the people watching. His dad had promised him they would come back as much as he wanted but the leave ended and his dad was gone again, the promises he had kept waiting to be fulfilled for when he came back home again. 

But it had been more than that: memories of him being older, bored and angry, cutting across the park with Ryan and Jamal in the early morning to the underground, stumbling back home from a party in Soho, friend of a friend who knows someone, someone’s cousin, a mate from school, an old family friend. The kind of things him and his mates wouldn't be invited to otherwise if they didn't arrive with pockets full of hash, little plastic bags of MDMA and benzos for variety dumped on them by a friend of Dean's who reminded them he wanted his money back in full and promised them a cut if they made good on it, snapping his gum as he stacked the bags and cello-wrapped buds on the counter of his dingy kitchen island. And they'd make their way around the outer edge of the park at the end of the night, drunk and exhilarated by their pockets filled with crumpled notes, yelling over each other and laughing obnoxiously, trying to climb the brick walls outside of Buckingham Palace and belting out raucous obscene songs towards the darkened windows.

He had actually gone to one more party, Ryan shuffling along behind him looking out of place, a few weeks before he met Harry on the steps of Holborn; had become a household name by then, in a way, reliable and kept his mouth shut. He always came through, was true to his word. He's embarrassed now, almost, for his past self, like he will emerge from the threshold of his old life and make a mess of this one. 

_Really?_ Roxy says, her look soft—he had told her enough about his dad, her never pressing for answers, but understanding just how strange and complicated it all was, uncharted territory for them both. _I always thought it so magical. How they all knew where to go, what steps to take. I liked the intricacy, the simplicity. How it never changed._ Without preamble, Roxy extricates her arm from Eggsy's and flops down just off the path in the grass on her back, stretching herself out and sighing contentedly. _Maybe it's what made me want to join the military._

_Really?_

_No._ She wiggles a bit, folding her arms behind her head. _May explain why I'm so uptight, though._

 _You're not,_ Eggsy says. 

Roxy grins brightly. _You're sweet,_ she murmurs. _Funny thought, though, that maybe our lives crossed paths before we ever even met. And look at us now._ She opens her eyes, squinting into the sun to look up at him properly. He gives her a wary look, glancing back down the path. She pats the grass beside her. Sighing, he sits down, electing not to lay down and instead sit with his legs crossed, leaning back on his hands. 

They're both quiet for a few minutes, Eggsy watching the people walk past them, Roxy still on the grass beside him. He starts to thinks she's fallen asleep, afraid to disturb her, when she suddenly turns over, lifting up on her elbow to look at him. 

_I get why you're nervous. I worked hard to get everything I have, Eggsy,_ Roxy says. _Even before Kingsman. Never had much of a leg up, being a girl. Everyone had such low expectations… and when I exceeded them, they would tell me to remember my place. Like my succeeding offended them._

 _Know that feeling,_ Eggsy replies, a bit stupefied by what she is saying, where it's coming from. 

_We both got here because we proved them wrong, those that never thought we could do good with our lives._ Roxy has that fierceness about her when she's determined: her tone low and steady, her gaze focused, an undercurrent of pride and worry that makes her words come fast, sudden. _Because we were stubborn and resilient and didn't let anyone set our boundaries or limitations for us. We got here because of that, you and me. Don't you think we owe those two scared kids who never thought they'd be allowed to amount to anything… don't you think we owe it ourselves, to those kids, to make the most of it?_

Her hand rests before her, fingertips lazily brushing over the grass, as if searching for some threshold on which to grasp: he's come to know this restlessness just as well as her, the aftershocks of the kick-back on a gun, of a well timed punch, of carrying the weight of a balanced knife, that just keep coming back in waves and the need to open their hands to it takes over like a habit, innate and inborn, to let it run its course and to feel it all over and over again, for no other reason than it was now a part of them, atoms rearranged constantly to accept what they had done, absorb it as a part of their history and legacy that was being built into their bones and skin and tendons. 

_We got nothing left to prove. We've done that already._

_There's always something left to prove, Eggsy. Besides, it's not the point, is it? The point is—you owe it to yourself to do what you can with what has been given to you._

Without much more thought, he reaches out to meet her fingers, and takes her hand in his. She smiles up at him, small and timid and kind; her hands don't seem to shake in his. 


	9. Chapter 9

There’s quick tap on the door; Eggsy glances over his shoulder to see Michelle standing in the doorway, knuckles resting on the jamb. 

_Going out?_ she asks.

_Yeah_. Eggsy turns back to the mirror, finishing buttoning up his collar, turning it up before reaching for the tie hanging over the mirror frame. _Kind of_. He drapes the tie around his neck, fiddles with the ends even though he can still tie a perfect Windsor knot with his eyes closed. _Going to Harry's_.

_Oh._

_It's just to talk. Haven't had much of a chance since I got back_.

She regards him for a moment before shaking her head, reaching forward to pull the knot loose. She searches through the folded pile of silk and patterned and woven ties, all mostly left untouched for the last few weeks, and comes up with a steel-blue weave with a subtle off-white dot pattern. 

Eggsy knows she doesn't need to; Michelle knows it, too. But he allows her all the same, his hands suddenly clumsy and fidgeting, unable to make his mind quiet enough to concentrate on the intricacy of the knot. 

It spurs on a memory—an embarrassment now, though he had felt one of it at the time—of him at the cusp of a very volatile and indignant thirteen, standing in the cramped space of his bedroom in front of his mirror, Michelle—near in tears from exhaustion and frustration and disappointment—trying to fix his botched attempt at tying his own tie. Called up to youth court to answer to the crimes of petty theft and tagging the outside of an office building, Michelle had desperately wanted him to be presentable, to not look so much like the spitfire, rampaging, angry boy he was. In an ill-fitted suit and scuffed dress shoes a size too small borrowed from the Gunderson’s two flats down, he had given no good impression to the hopelessly optimistic judge and, what he was sure was now punishment mostly for his cheek and mulish disregard for any accountability or remorse, he had been slapped with community service, which he obligated with the bare minimum and a hefty fine that sent Dean—drunk and just looking to get riled up—into an unholy rage, banging the cupboard doors and screaming about what a fuck up Eggsy was, what a waste of space, what a bloody fucking disgrace. 

_You know_ , Michelle says matter-of-factly as she deftly loops one end of the tie over the other, _I noticed it about your dad as well._

Distracted by her work, he looks up at her, confused at the abrupt shift. _What?_

She meets his eye, a brief helpless dismay before she looks back to the tie. _What've you been like, lately._

_I'm not—_

Michelle makes a quick, interrupting noise, dismissive and carrying that motherly authority. _Oh, don't think I don't notice—you've been living under my nose for over twenty years, I know when you're…_ She trails off weakly, her focus intent on moving her fingers to thread the end of the tie through the loop, chewing on her bottom lip. _Your dad didn't like to talk about it, either._

It feels like he has a rock grinding in the pit of his stomach, a wretched, vicious kind of dread. _Mum—_

_It's alright, Eggsy. When he came back from the Gulf War and you were only a babe, then, you'd never have known. he would just—disappear,_ she waves her hand quickly in front of her face, eyes going wide, _for days. I'd be in a panic, calling the police and his officer and his counsellor. He'd come back, always, but he'd say he didn't remember where he'd been. What he'd done. Terrified the daylights out of me. Couldn't do nothing for it, though,_ she finishes with a shrug. Her hands have stilled, his tie half-done. 

Eggsy finds himself at a loss for words; he had held onto this belief that his dad had been a stalwart, untouchable paragon of virtue and sacrifice and bravery. Even moreso after he had learned the whole truth, he had felt like he would always be aiming for this unattainable figure in his mind, of what he thought his father to be. To know this—something his mum had never shared with him, let alone hinted at in any of the lonely years they spent in hidden grief—was at once oddly comforting and entirely discomfiting. 

He had had a picture, a medal from a perfect stranger and a vague impression of the man with by which he, both consciously and not, had measured himself all his life. His every success bolstered by the stern, flat expression that Eggsy could mistake for distant pride; his every failure—and how quickly they outnumbered his successes as he grew older—met with the disapproving stare of the man in his military dress, his brilliant eyes shadowed by the brim of his cap. 

_We were young,_ Michelle continues. _And so scared. All we wanted was to be normal, to have a normal life, a nice home. Lots of kids._ She smiles, mostly to herself, sad and reflective. _For all that we went through, never thought it'd end the way it did._

Eggsy places his hands over hers, where they've come to rest on his shoulders, her hands paused in smoothing down his collar. _I'm sorry, Mum_. And it's an apology for a multitude of things: for keeping her in the dark on purpose, for the months he spent away, for how he never really came back; for agreeing to this life, despite what it had done to him already, before he was even aware of its existence, how it altered the course of his life and was the first break in the foundation that lead to thousands more. 

_No, Eggsy, you stop saying sorry,_ Michelle says firmly. _You don't tell ‘cause I don't ask. And maybe it ain't the smart way about this, but—but I don't wanna know what you've gotten yourself into. I sleep a bit easier at night for it._

_Your dad—he never wanted to burden me with what he’d seen. What he’d done. And I had told him, hundreds of times, how I didn't care._ Retrieving her hand from under his, she reaches up to cup the side of his face, to look directly at him. _You're so like him, in so many big and small ways. It still makes my heart hurt._

As if coming back to herself, suddenly Michelle pulls her hand from under his face and steps back, a hand coming to curl over her mouth. Of all the different ways their grief had manifested, Eggsy had bore them all: he had seen how it had changed her, how it did not seem like much at the time, but looking back it was evident. The years she had aged right before his eyes.

_It's hard to watch someone suffer like that, not knowing what's going on in their head._

She’s pacing around the room, a rather self-conscious act, tidying the small mess he had made on his dresser. Her hands are restless, fussing with his comb and bottle of cologne and ties chosen and rejected that evening, straightening out the random collection of things he had accumulated. _But I imagine it’s even worse… worse for you, going through all that—and to try go it alone._

_I'm fine, Mum._ He watches, growing more unsettled, as she picks up the leftover mint tin where he keeps the ring when it’s not in his pocket, hold it in her open hand; he breathes a shaky sigh of relief, the irrational agitation that had been building up draining from him. _Honest._

She pauses in her task, half-turned from him; the bedside light he left on catches the soft lines of her face, throwing her features into a wan yellow wash. _I was awful for you, wasn't I?_

Startled by how abrupt and unexpected her question is, Eggsy blurts out, _What?_

_I never did right by you—no, you listen to me,_ Michelle hushes him, impatient and resolute, as he tries to interrupt her. _This ain't about you protecting me no more. Don't get that look, I don't want you making your excuses for me. I spent so long mourning your dad that I completely let you slip from me._

Her hands, held up to silence him, now wrung together, fingers pressed into knuckles. 

_He—Dean was a horrid, horrid man. And I was just as horrid for letting him in._

_Mum, I don't—_

_And you don't have to. I won't say I did my best because, well, I didn't. I didn't. But—god help me, Eggsy—god help me if I'm going to let you go this alone all over again._

She steps forward, tugging him into a firm, loving embrace. Her hands, spread out across his back, are trembling. He sucks in a breath, swallows down the surprise; clutches his fists into her jumper and clings to her. He buries his face into her shoulder, breathing in the intimate, comforting scent of her, of the fleeting moments of his youth that were not ugly, unkind: the flowery perfume she never hadn’t changed since he was young, the bargain brand detergent she still bought, drowsy sleep smells of laying curled beside her in bed when Dean was gone all night, faint cigarette smoke she waved away with her hands when he would find her perched on her window sill, blowing the smoke out propped open window, looking beautiful and wretched in that one tremulous and suspended moment; where the haze of a slow burning cigarette would twirl around her, veil her in white and blue, and captivated and in awe as he was as a boy, he saw only the magnetic, almost eerie beauty of her and none of her sorrow.

_Mum,_ he mutters weakly, muffled against her skin, his eyes gone wide at the swell anguish that grips him.

And she tightens her arms around him then, shifting and bearing his weight—and he didn’t realize it, that he was leaning into her—and she holds all of him up, somehow, keeps him from falling. _Whatever happened over there—you're here, you’re okay._ And she says it, over and over: _You're here. You're okay._

\- -

Eggsy finds himself hesitating on Harry’s doorstep, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets, too nervous to even knock on the door. His mum’s words followed him the entire taxi ride to the corner of Gloucester Road, where he had the driver stop, saying he would walk the rest of the way. He had hoped the short walk in the mild summer evening would alleviate some of the persistent, vague thoughts milling and around in his head, indistinct and blurry where he can’t seem to sort through the tangled threads, parse them out.

Reluctantly, he knocks on the door, an unconscious half-step back when he hears movement on the other side, Harry's voice calling. The door swings open, Harry on the other side, dressed in a crisp pale blue shirt and his striped apron.

_Hello,_ Harry says, the relief on his face so apparent that Eggsy smiles back at him. 

_Hey._ Eggsy steps inside, shuffling in beside Harry, who’s shut the door and turned back to him, a bright, expectant look on his face. 

_I must admit, I was rather worried you had changed your mind._

Eggsy's eyebrows raise, caught off guard. _Oh? Didn't think I was that bad._

_Yes, well,_ Harry clears his throat, _You proved me wrong. It has been known to happen._

They stand stiffly, unsure of what to say to each other in the peculiar lull that follows; too close together, the cramped space of the foyer bringing them into each other’s space—when Harry moves his hand, it brushes against the back of Eggsy’s, the barest touch that feels like threaded right through him, a lingering shiver etched lightly into his skin.

_Something to drink?_ Harry asks.

Eggsy gives Harry a cautious look; returned is genuine concern, a kind smile.

_Water,_ Harry clarifies _. I can make tea—or coffee, if you prefer._

_Uh—water’s fine. Thanks._

Harry moves into the dining room, talking over his shoulder as he walks around the set dining room table—the everyday white china Eggsy would eat leftovers on in the evenings and let JB lick clean when Harry wasn’t looking, the cutlery with the scuff marks that sat in the drawer next to the dishwasher, the forks used to jimmy open stuck locks or the knives used as makeshift multitool more times than Eggsy would dare to admit to Harry—talking over his shoulder. Sound of the cupboard, water running into the sink, the rattling of glasses.

_It’s really going to be nothing special for supper—roast chicken, how you like—you still like it, don’t you? Eggsy—I hope it’s alright? We can always order in if you’d rather having something else._

Eggsy looks up from where he was staring at the simple place settings—their regular spots: Harry at the head of the table, Eggsy at his left, so like all the other nights where they had sat together at the end of the day to catch up on their day—to see Harry standing at the doorway into the kitchen, holding the glass of water, looking bemused.

_Yeah, it’s fine._ Eggsy steps forward to take the offered glass, grasps it in both of his hands. _Sounds great._ He rolls his lip between his teeth, glancing about the room, drumming his fingers against the glass, the dull sound of it filling the air between them.

_It will be a few more minutes,_ Harry informs him. 

_Do you need any help?_

It’s not that he really wants to but he feels restless just hovering, strange—like a stranger—standing in a place he once called his home, and he thinks he make sink into the floor or disappear into the walls or drift aimlessly through all the rooms, as if searching for the anchor that had once tethered him here—in the hall closet by the downstairs bathroom where he had kept his shoes, JB’s leash, the warmer rain jacket Harry had insisted her purchase; in the bedside drawers where he kept his dad’s medal, his signet ring when he took it off before he went to bed, the creased paperback spy novels he read that Harry affectionately rolled his eyes at.

_No, I’ll be fine. Just make yourself—_ at home. They stare at each other for a moment before Harry finishes, _comfortable._

Harry ducked back into the kitchen, busying himself with opening cupboards and searching in the fridge, pulling out assorted bowls and running the sink again, while Eggsy stepped back into the dining room, spinning awkwardly on his heel to survey the room. And not much had truly changed—the same watercolour landscapes and sepia-toned lithographs adorning the walls, the same lamp—turned on—and the books resting beside it on the foyer table, the same buffet tucked underneath the serving hatch with its domed silver platter and decanters—though now the decanters were emptied of their contents. Then—he looks around the room, more closely: the crystal tumblers, turned upside down and stacked on a circular pewter tray draped with a white cloth, still on the buffet; the globe bar cart, deceiving the first time Eggsy had seen it and mildly, shockingly amusing when Harry had revealed its true purpose when Eggsy had teased him for being so posh he had a globe in his dining room, it’s lid closed. Glancing into the kitchen, Harry with his back turned standing at the counter, Eggsy ran his hand over the nearly invisible seam, feeling for the hidden latch at the front and flicking it open. He catches it, knowing from experience that the hinges squeak something awful, and lifts it slowly with his finger to peer inside—the myriad of bottles, the various brands of gin and whiskey and scotch, were all gone and the interior was curiously, pleasantly dark in the dim light.

_Eggsy?_

Startled, Eggsy drops the heavy lid, the lock clicking shut in the quiet of the room. He looks up at Harry, standing in the door carrying the pan with the roast chicken, looking at him over the glasses perched on his nose. Eggsy bows his head somewhat sheepishly, taking a furtive drink of his water. But Harry gives him a playful, affectionate smile, a look of understanding that, while it doesn’t alleviate the childish shame that crawled under his skin at being caught poking around in things that were really no longer his, did give him some ease, a reassurance that Harry’s sense of humour had remained.

For the all the things that had stayed the same—the good things that stayed the same—and all the things that changed, Eggsy found himself grateful. That nothing everything would be so lost.

_Supper’s ready_ , Harry says. He looks to where Eggsy's hand was still resting on the globe. _Ah. That, yes._

_Sorry, I shouldn't—_

_It's alright. Three months sober last week._

Eggsy is impressed; Dean may have managed a few days, a week at his best, before he started getting agitated and mean without it. Eggsy himself knew the perils of giving up that kind of crutch, the almost deafening voice in the back of his head telling him, _just one more won't hurt, just one more._

_That's awesome, Harry, really._

_It wasn't without its bad days. Many, in the beginning. I didn't think I could do it, to be honest._

_But you did._

Harry smiles. _I did._

Eggsy sits as Harry sets the roast on the table, already carved, vegetables separated and sorted to the side. Harry goes back into the kitchen, bringing back a bowl of fresh dinner rolls and his own glass of water—offers to refill Eggsy’s—then back into the kitchen for the butter before he finally sits down. He smiles once again, gestures for Eggsy to dish out his own plate as he lays his napkin across his lap.

They eat in relative, comfortable silence—amiable chatter about the weather, about the food, about things at Kingsman that bear no burden or weight to either of them—and soon Harry is clearing away their plates, taking the leftover food back into the kitchen.

_Thanks, Harry. This was—it was nice._ He leans forward, elbows resting on the table, to watch Harry move around the kitchen. 

Harry is leaning wiping his hands on a towel at the sink, looking back over his shoulder. _I’m glad._ He turns around, leans back against the sink, looking directly at Eggsy with those unwavering, piercing eyes; ones Eggsy had seen brittle with fury, gentle with affection, gone vacant and dull with something Eggsy had not known. Now—there is a mix: contentment, worry, patience. _I’m happy you came._

Eggsy drops his hands to the table, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips that he tries to hid by tipping his chin down. _Are you sure you don’t want any help?_

_No._ Harry shakes his head, waves his hand dismissively at the dishes. _I’ll clean it up later. Actually—_ another genuine, happy look, a quick smile, clasping his hands together— _there’s something I want to show you._

Eggsy blinks at Harry, uncertain. _Oh. Alright._

_It’s in the back garden._

They go back through the dining room, through the door beside the bar globe and into the sitting room.

In the half-dark of twilight, Eggsy can tell—just like the rest of the house—nothing much has changed. Bookcases framing the television and console, the couches with the sagging seats and the knitted afghan that Eggsy had fell asleep under watching late night telly countless times, more of Harry's eclectic and ornate trinkets collected on his travels, hours spent walking the antique stalls in Buenos Aires rummaging through boxes of chipped tea sets and old photographs for something special, sorting through the Chinese antiques of porcelain Mao statuettes and butterfly-wing thing rice paper lanterns in Australia, even surprising finds from his many solitary walks through London: it's where he had acquired the austere ship in a bottle still on the mantle in the corner and the toy train set from the 1940s set atop a bookcase. And while it seemed a place all of Harry's own, Eggsy saw his own presence still firmly placed amongst all of Harry’s things: the PS4 beside the satellite box and its towering pile of games, a ukulele he had found in Camden their first time there, painted in colourful mosaic and kaleidoscope that he was immediately drawn to, and placed on the wall beside a replica tapestry of a winged Isis ( _Their colours compliment each other,_ Harry had explained when Eggsy had protested to its addition to the wall). 

On the end tables: framed photos of Daisy and him covered in sand, laughing loudly, the day they had spent at Seagrove; another of Harry, dozing in his chair with JB curled up on his lap; his dad’s marine photo and another he had taken from his mum’s photo album, of his dad and him sitting on the steps of the council estates, him—just over a year old, chubby and bald and barely walking—balanced over his dad’s knee with an unlit smoke dangling from his lips, his eyes crinkled, mouth open, caught mid-snap in a booming laugh; one of Eggsy had taken of him and Harry on impulse walking down Savile Row—raining, faces shadowed under an umbrella, but clear to see: Eggsy, arms outstretched with his phone at an odd angle, stretching up to kiss Harry on the cheek, Harry's fond look of surprise, a small smile starting to spread over his face. 

Like walking into a still life, a tableau of a life left in suspension: 11 Stanhope Mews, the day after. It shouldn't have fit, badly executed and garish, flaunting the glaring contrast of who they are compared to each other, a testament to how unlikely the reality of them is.

But the strange irregularities, the consistent dissimilarities—more a reminder to Eggsy of why he still looked at this house and thought _home_.

The French doors leading out to the back garden had been, as far as Eggsy was concerned, always locked with the blinds drawn. Once, shortly after he had moved in, Eggsy had taken JB out there to do his business when he was too lazy to walk him down the street to the park: a desolate, cramped space with ceramic pots stacked in the corner of the brick garden wall, paving stones covered in dirt and old leaves, the only bit of green a neglected tree in desperate need of pruning, just starting to bloom, and weeds valiantly poking through the crushed rock. He had chalked it up to Harry just not being much of green thumb and never brought up the wasted space. 

Apparently, he had been wrong on that assumption. 

The back garden, once an unappealing mix of grey and brown, was now overflowing with lush growth, greenery and an array of flowers. Patio lights strung from the house to the garden wall, zigzagging overhead, illuminating a trellis stretching the length of the far wall covered with wisteria and ivy, a stone garden bed filled low trimmed bushes, snapdragons in dark reds and brilliant yellows, zinnias in orange and fuschia and light greens, ageratum in violet hues. The once neglected tree was now blooming with soft pink petals, a wrought iron table and two chairs placed underneath its branches. Various other pots—filled with anything from dahlias and marigolds to staked tomato plants and leeks, miniature pots on the concrete steps with little plastic markers stuck in the soil: mint, parsley, oregano, sage. 

_Wow, this is… wow,_ Eggsy remarks; the drastic change had left him momentarily stunned, blinking into the evening light to slowly look around, take it all in _. I mean—it looks great though, Harry. Really._

_Thank you,_ Harry says. He rocks back on his heels for a second before he sets off across the flagstone path towards the table and chairs. _But—well, I cannot take all the credit. Your mother was a great help._

It takes Eggsy a minute to process the last bit. _My mum_ , he repeats. 

_Yes._ Harry is half-turned from Eggsy, his shoulders set; defensive, in a nervous, uncertain way. _She came by a few weeks after you left. She wanted to see if I had heard from you, to make sure you were alright._ Harry chances a look back at Eggsy, the look in his eyes reproachful but sympathetic. _You tell her not to worry but it doesn't do much good. And so—_ a sigh, a shrug— _I would tell her what I knew and she would stay for tea or to just talk. Eventually she saw the garden, asked if I wanted help fixing it up. She's quite remarkable with this kind of stuff. I mean, just look at it—_ He sweeps his hand, gesturing to the plants and flowers and lights. He pauses, lost to a reverie, the lights reflecting in blurred pinpoints of light in his glasses. Then, his eyes drift shut, then open and he says, _And, well—here we are._

_You weren't supposed to get updates on my mission._ Eggsy’s still standing on the last step down into the garden, still dumbfounded, staring incredulously at Harry. _I told Merlin not to._

_I could ask if you were alive or not._

_Right._ Eggsy manages to say this without clenching his teeth. 

_It was the same as all the other agents knew. Merlin never told me anything more than he was allowed._ Standing behind one of the chairs, long fingers curled over the backrest, Harry looks unguarded in the warm glow, closed in the walled garden. _I—apologize for that phone call. I was not thinking clearly._

Eggsy looks away, down at his feet, to the potted eggplant propping open the door. 

Harry starts, _I'm sorry, I didn't think—_

Eggsy curtly shakes his head. _I just—asked him not to, you get me? I thought after everything…_

_Yes,_ Harry says quickly, nodding as he looks back towards the table. _Absolutely._

Eggsy huffs out his next breath, resisting the urge to laugh, impulsive nagging desire to, at how absurd and heartbreaking this all was, at how this was not at all what he imagined this night to be like—half-formed daydreams of indeterminate purpose or direction, sometimes laying in bed beside Harry or other times it's daylight and they haven't said anything at all—but it was better than whatever this was. _She probably asked then, did she? About what happened between us._

_She did,_ Harry says after a minute of indecision. 

_You told her?_

_She was rather persistent. And worried, like I said._ A tic at the corner of Harry's mouth, grinning. _She certainly wasn't afraid to let me know just what she thought of me._

There's a peculiar relief to this, that Eggsy didn't have to be the one to explain all this to her—he's sorry that it was Harry who had to bear the brunt of her ire but there far too many reasons he had not wanted to tell her. Selfishly, he was glad to not have that responsibility. 

_Mum always said stubbornness runs in her family._ Timidly, Eggsy smiles back at Harry. 

_I can see it._

Something lifts from Eggsy, a tension he hadn't known was there between them dissolving, bleeding from their avoidant, darting gazes and stilted movements. 

Eggsy digs the heel of his shoe into the ledge of the step. _How'd she take it?_

_She was upset. Had a few choice words for me when I told her the truth._ Harry tilts his head; the same sharp, inquisitive look that seemed his signature but now—kinder, threaded through with more compassion. _I'm surprised you didn't tell her yourself._

Eggsy shrugs, lets his head fall back with a sigh until he's staring up through the lights and onto a dark blue London sky. _Didn't see reason for it. What for? Just make her sad, make her start worrying about me and thinking about Dean and—_ He glances up; Harry’s eyes gone wide and surprised, Eggsy himself stunned— _well, you know._

_You didn't—it was never anything you did, Eggsy,_ Harry says suddenly, with a steady conviction _. Not once._

_She did ask,_ Eggsy says flatly, can hear the note of panic and surprise in his own voice, thin and shaking; his thoughts and words running out ahead of him, faster than he can comprehend what he's truly saying. _If you ever hurt me. Ever hit me or anything. She just... looked so scared when she did, I couldn't—I couldn't just tell her. She didn't deserve that. I was—I had it under control._

_It’s okay,_ Harry says gently. _It's okay, Eggsy, I understand._

Eggsy worries the inside of his bottom lip, staring back at his feet, the eggplant, the hazy patterns of golden light and soft shadow stretching across the yard. 

_Are you cold? I can get you a sweater._

Eggsy hadn't realized he had started shivering, his arms folded tightly across his chest, shoulders hunched up to his ears. Harry is moving back towards him, eyebrows knit together in concern. 

_No, Harry, you really don't need to—_

But Harry’s already slipping past him, back into the house, before Eggsy can protest further; a couple short minutes later, he comes back with a sweater draped over his arm, talking conversationally as he walks through the sitting room: _The cool evenings have been wonderful for the snapdragons but not much else, unfortunately. Could use some heat, a good spot of rain._ He takes the sweater off his arm and hands it to Eggsy. _Here. I believe it’s yours anyway._

Eggsy takes the sweater, seeing it better now beneath the patio lights: a slate grey knit jumper, long sleeves permanently rolled up midway, the hem line stretched from where it was constantly being adjusted, pulled on, used to nudge and lead and guide—nimble fingers curling in a fist into the fabric, tugging him forward or backward or to the side, laughing as he tumbled into Harry, who answered with a hand threaded through his hair at the nape of his neck, tender kisses pressed to the corners of his mouth, along his jaw, down his neck. 

A painful little lurch in his chest, trickling down his arms, twisting up in his throat so for a few moments, every breath feels wrenched out of him. 

_This is yours_ , Eggsy says. 

A bewildered, flustered look passes over Harry’s eyes. _No—I'm certain it's yours._ Harry looks down at the sweater then up at Eggsy. He gestures to it. _You were always wearing it._

_Yeah,_ Eggsy says quietly, arm still outstretched from when he had taken it, hand wrapped into the soft wool blend, _I wore a lot of your clothes._

_Oh._ Harry blinks. He clears his throat awkwardly, moves to take the sweater from Eggsy's hand. _Well, I can find you something else..._

_No,_ Eggsy blurts out, suddenly unwilling to let it go. _This one’s fine._ Uncuffing his shirt sleeves, he rolls the cuffs up to his elbow, then pulls the sweater on, tugging it over his head, smoothing his hair back down. _Thanks._

_Well… we might as well sit down._

Beneath the skyglow of London, the never fully dark night washed through with artificial orange and pale white light, Harry folds his hands together and rests them before him, watching Eggsy carefully. 

When neither of them say anything for a few long minutes, Harry sits up straighter, brushing the palms of his hands over the top of the table. _I guess I will start, then._ He takes a deep breath, hands coming up to rub at his face, push his glasses onto his head, an apprehensive impression about him. _I realize there are… a multitude of things that we should discuss. And I know that you being here is far more grace than I deserve. But—_ Here, he catches Eggsy's eye, holds his gaze— _you can trust me, Eggsy._

_Yeah,_ Eggsy huffs, trying valiantly to hide the old hurt breaking the surface of his carefully built resolve, _and how many times did I say the exact same thing to you?_

_Eggsy… when you left to Thailand, I was incredibly hurt and upset that you didn't tell me that you took the mission._

_I didn't—_ Eggsy starts defensively, sitting up from his agitated slump, but Harry nods in agreement, interrupting him gently. 

_You didn’t have to, I know. And I agree with you._ Harry shifts in his seat, sits back. Crosses his leg, uncrosses them. _I understand why you did. After how I treated you… You don't owe me anything, Eggsy. Not an explanation or an apology or a reason. You leaving was truthfully the worst and best thing for me. You left and I was angry, so incredibly angry—at you, at myself, Merlin and Arthur and anyone else who dared to cross me._ Harry sighs deeply, stares off to the side, into the open door into interior of the dark sitting room. _And when the anger subsided… I was left with the very real fear that I had lost you forever. That even if—when,_ Harry corrects himself, _when you came back, you wouldn't come back to me. I finally realized how… absolutely horrific I had been. To you, to everyone. Especially to you. Eggsy, I am sorry. I am so terribly sorry for what I put you through. For the terrible things I said to you._

_Harry…_

_I'm not asking you to decide now. Not tomorrow or next week or even next month. I just want you to know that… that I love you, very much._

And that—that shocks Eggsy. Not because he doesn't believe it, not that he ever stopped believing it, but to hear it said out loud—after so long of not hearing it—brings a startling sensation, a dull suffocating movement, a kind of pulling or folding in chest at being reminded of this. And a part of him, a tireless and ferocious determination he had ignored and abandoned in favour of what he had thought was surviving the aftershock, clings desperately to this while the rest of him begs to throw up those guarded walls once again. To not let himself be that vulnerable.

There is a flash of hurt when instead of saying it back (and he wants to, he could and he wouldn't be lying, not in any way, but it's like the words pull apart in his mouth before he even opens it to speak), he says, _Roxy said you were gone. For rehab._

_I was. It was rather unorthodox to send me to a program unaffiliated with Kingsman. But it was Arthur’s idea._ Harry says this as if it surprises him as much as it does Eggsy. _After discussion with Gwen, it was decided my recovery would be best aided outside of Kingsman at the start. Away from any—negative memories._

When Eggsy doesn't say anything, Harry continues on with a faint reassuring smile. _There was a focus on survivors of the massacre. To think, all this time later, there are still so many._ He shakes his head. _It was the best place for me, to start. When I was clean and on my feet, I came back to Kingsman. Since then, I've been retraining for field entry, going to therapy sessions. Kay and Bedivere have been talking of retirement—Merlin had proposed I overtake recruit training._ He says this all with a restrained pride—not boastful, but a renewed confidence, a testament to just how well he's done and how far he's come to be here. 

_Wow._ Eggsy's runs his hand across his mouth, studies Harry for a long moment: the sharp set to his shoulders, his expression soft and open and patient. _Okay. I'm glad you’re better,_ Eggsy says as sincerely as he hopes he can. _Really. It's great. I'm glad._

Harry’s mouth falls into a fretful line, disappointment at Eggsy's lack of reaction. And maybe there is some guilt but he feels as if his head is spinning, trying to understand and piece together all the things they had left discarded all those months ago. 

_I can't promise to be a good man most days._ Harry is restless, hands fanning out, moving forward, pulling back, palms open and laying flat on table before him. Like he can't decide what to do with them, where to put them—like he wants to do something more. _I've lived a life that makes it nearly impossible. But what I can promise is to love you, completely, just as I do now. Just as I've done from the moment we met. I can promise with that... that I will do my best. And—and I hope you can say the same. But I understand if you don't._

Eggsy’s not entirely sure what to say and he's even less sure that what he says is the appropriate response, but he feels caught flat-footed, unprepared for the honesty with which Harry is approaching him. _This isn’t what I wanted_ , he says. 

Harry's looks crestfallen, his shoulders sagging. Soft glow of lights marking the layers of his understanding and hurt in indistinct shadows. _Eggsy, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for everything, for how I've handled this. For making you... afraid. For not trusting you when I should have._

_Tell me—you gotta tell me you didn't do this for me,_ Eggsy asks—pleads, actually. He shifts forward in his chair, bringing his hands up from where they had stayed interlaced in his lap and wraps his fingers around Harry's wrist, the palms of their hands pressed together. Harry startles, eyes widening as if he had done something miraculous. _Tell me… that you did this because you wanted to be better. Not because you thought it would make me come back. I don't want that… Dean did it, for years, promising my mum he'd stop drinking, stop picking on me, stop all his shit. And he would, for a bit…_ Eggsy looks down at their hands, where Harry has curled his fingers around Eggsy's wrists as well, holding on, the rapid thrumming of Harry's pulse at Eggsy's fingertips. _Then, when she was happy again, he'd start all over._ Eggsy shakes his head, tightens his grip on Harry, staring at him and imploring, desperately hoping that Harry will deem to tell the truth, whatever it may be, however much it may hurt. _So don't. Don't do this for me because I don't want it._

And Harry doesn't break their stare, his warm eyes honest and clear. _I didn't. I haven't. Eggsy, I would be lying if I said you leaving wasn't part of it but—no, no, I didn't do just to get you back. I couldn't live like that any longer._

Eggsy swallows thickly, looks out back across the garden. He could pull his hands back, set them back in his lap but with the familiar weight of Harry's hands on his, the warmth of the signet ring, the gun callouses on his thumbs against the tender inside of his wrist, he can't make himself pull away. _Okay, Harry. I believe you._

_If you want to have me, I will be here,_ Harry says. 

He thinks—knows—there is more for him to say, that he should say. Harry sitting, waiting, trying to hide his hopefulness beneath a calm demeanour, betraying himself in the subconscious quirks: the nervous twitch of his thumb, his impatience and worry; the pursing of his lips, keeping his words at bay. 

_I know,_ Eggsy says quietly. He unfurls his fingers from Harry's wrist; Harry lets him go. 

In the awkward lull, in the odd passage of time where all the things that need to be said gather unspoken and weigh with fraught discomfort between them, Eggsy glances at the watch on his wrist, seeing it was getting late. _Shit—it's late. I've gotta be at HQ early tomorrow._ He stands from his chair and Harry quickly follows. _Sorry, Harry._

_Then I won't keep you._

Eggsy hesitates, the urge to say everything he's wanted to say for months building at the back of this throat: _I hated you, I trusted you, how could you not trust me, I did this because of you, I never stopped loving you—not for a second._

They walk back through the house, Harry coming in behind Eggsy; he pushes the pots away from the French doors with his foot, letting them fall closed, sending the curtains fluttering in the gust of air. Eggsy waits for him by the closed door leading into the dining room, Harry ambling around the back of couch to flick on the end table lamp; when Harry joins him, there is a faint smile on his face, and he reaches out to touch the back of Eggsy's arm, fingers barely brushing before he gestures for Eggsy to go ahead. 

They stand together in the foyer waiting for Eggsy's taxi to arrive, Harry leaning against the stair banister while Eggsy stayed tucked into the corner by the door, trying not to look conspicuous and ill at ease and knowing he was failing. 

_You must be nervous for the upcoming tribunal,_ Harry comments after Eggsy has leaned over to look into the dining room for the third time, waiting to see streaks of the taxi’s headlights across the table and wall. 

Eggsy looks up at Harry when he says this, takes him in as he is: standing on the second last step, glasses perched back on his nose: how many times he had walked into this very house to find Harry in that same spot, waiting for him after a few days or even just a few hours away. It's all so ordinary, them being here like they are, having supper and waiting by the front door for the sound of tires on cobblestone, carrying on along the thread of normalcy, their mundane routines and little peculiarities that have come to define their lives, unaffected.

_Yeah, a bit._ Eggsy shrugs, leaning back against the wall, ignoring the pang in his chest that threatens to overtake him whenever the tribunal was mentioned. He blew out his breath, letting his head fall back. _But it’s whatever, innit? I got what they sent me for, didn’t I? They told me not to engage so it’s not like they would’ve been bringing anyone in. And yeah, it’s a fucking mess, I know that, but… well, fuck, ain’t this what we do?_ A flippant gesture with his hand to them both; getting carried away. _This is our job, right? We’ll still find him. Poor excuse for a fucking spy agency if we don’t, yeah?_

Harry had watched him attentively while he rambled on; it’s not that Eggsy actually believed what he was telling Harry. But from experience, he knew half the battle came in astounding amounts of confidence and conviction that the choices he made were justified.

_I ain’t worried,_ Eggsy asserts.

This earns him a raised eyebrow from Harry, a miniscule smile. _I know you’re not._

Just as Eggsy’s about to say something in response, the dining room is washed in harsh light, the recognizable crunch of tires on the street muffled through the house, and Harry stiffens, arms falling to his side. 

_Well, that’s your ride._

_Yeah,_ Eggsy says, his mouth feeling thick and dry, words hard to form.

Harry descends the stairs, crosses the gap between them to stand beside him. Eggsy, with his hand resting on the door handle, unable to move, feet stuck to the floor, leaden and unwilling to go any further, to step out that door once again. 

_I'm going to ask you something,_ Harry says.

Eggsy blinks up at him, watching Harry talk slow, measured steps towards him. _Okay._

_You can say no. I’ll understand if you do._

_Okay,_ Eggsy says, nodding. 

_May I kiss you?_

He almost laughs, for how absurd and sincere it is. Instead, Eggsy sways where he stands, dazed, and nods wordlessly and lets Harry kiss him. There is something wholly incomparable, a gentle thrill, in kissing someone who have kissed before, and often: knowing how they will hold you, how they will move with you, how they will kiss you fervently, gently, tenderly and you will know by how their fingers come to rest on you, to cradle the back of your hand, trail over your shoulders, pull you closer. 

Harry’s soft inhale, his own breathless moan in the air between them, a kiss tentative and searing in its simplicity. And it is a kiss so unremarkable, so ordinary and everyday, and yet Eggsy clutches blindly to Harry’s arms, feeling like he will fall he doesn’t hold onto him now.

_You could stay the night_ , Harry offers in between pressing sweet, delicate kisses to the sides of Eggsy’s face, _You could stay with me._

He could, he could—how easy it would be to fall back into this—

But Eggsy shakes his head. He takes Harry’s hand in his, presses Harry’s knuckles against his lips, lets his eyes close. He can’t put into words, how desperately he wants to stay here and how he knows he can’t, not just yet. He hopes Harry will understand this, without him having to say it.

_Alright,_ Harry murmurs with a tenderness that makes Eggsy’s heart aches, breath catching. 

So, he tugs Harry back down again, mouths crashing together, let’s himself surrender to it—eager and loving and all-consuming—still holding fast to Harry, their laced together hands crushed between them. 

Harry pulls away first; his other hand coming to cup Eggsy’s face, thumb tracing over his cheek. He presses a final, reverent kiss to Eggsy’s forehead. _Good night, Eggsy._

_Night, Harry._

It’s not until he is halfway home, his mouth still tingling with the warmth that Harry’s kiss had left behind, that Eggsy realizes he's still wearing Harry's sweater. 

\- -

It started raining that morning, on his way to work; coming down in a sheet, pelting on the roof of the taxi, beads tracing lines down the window. Running from the taxi into the shop, he's starting to crave a smoke, worried that Gwen won't want the balcony doors opened. He already has the cigarette in his hand, rolling it between his fingertips, when he knocks on her office door, letting himself in. 

Deep breathing. A few minutes of meditation, relaxation. Laid out on the couch, hands over his face, listening to the rain against the glass. The cigarette on the end table behind him, beside a lukewarm cup of tea.

He wants that smoke, more than anything, but he can't bring himself to ask if he can. 

_You got someone?_ Eggsy tilts his head back, peers at Gwen through his fingers, disoriented for a minute by being upside down. _Or am I not allowed to ask those kinds of things? Does doctor-patient confidentiality run both ways?_

_Are you asking if I'm with someone?_

Eggsy lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. _Just curious._

Gwen gives him a small, amused smile. _I'm married._

_Do they know bout what you do?_

_She does. She doesn't know about this, though. The spy part._

_You've never told her?_

_Well, no._ Gwen breathes out. _Even if I worked in a regular practice, I wouldn't discuss my patients with her. And there's the matter that I'm not allowed to disclose where I work or for who._

_Hmm._ Eggsy nods his head, settling back into the comfortable slouch he had, hands back to shielding his eyes. _And it’s good? Between the two of you, I mean?_

_Yes. I love her, and she loves me._

_That's all it takes, huh? To make it good._

_A little more than that, I'd say._ A beat, creaking as she shifts in her chair. _Is this about Harry?_

Eggsy ignores this, avoids this, throw them off and ask another question. _What about trust? Like—do you trust her, she trusts you?_

_Yes. I would say we do._

Rain steady against the glass, flat dull drumming, relentless. _And what happens when—when you do something or she does something wrong? Do you forgive her?_

_Well, I believe trust and forgiveness go hand in hand. If you forgive someone, you are trusting them to be careful with you._ Her elbows resting on her knees, looking intently at him. _Who do you trust?_

_Myself._ He slips his off his face, turning to look back at her. He smiles and nods his chin at her. _You._

_Well… that's a good place to start,_ Gwen says, returning the smile. _I thought we could discuss Danny today. While we are on the topic of trust. Now recall the first time you saw Danny—at the airport, wasn't it? Tell me, what was he wearing?_

Closing his eyes, he says, _Purple sunglasses and a straw hat._


	10. Chapter 10

After the evening spent at Harry's, Eggsy’s thoughts often turned to Harry—an involuntary, hopeless series of questions rampaging through: of where he was now, of what he was doing—was he at the estate, filling out forms and going through mission backlogs, running the training course through the northern trees or at the shooting range, gun in hand, indelible focus steadying the fine tremors in his hands—was he at home, or heading home, ducking into the Indian place down the street from home for a late supper of his usual (madras with saffron rice, sides of bhindi and sag aloo, naan that he eats most of before he gets in his front door), shuffling through the quiet house, bare-footed like he would most days, shoes left by the door and socks tossed in the laundry basket, preoccupied by the plate of food balancing in his hand, the mail to sort through, the book he was reading, eyebrows knit in concentration, that one stray curl of hair that never stayed falling over his eyes. 

And even though he inserted himself directly into Harry's path—catching Harry around dinner time when he was leaving the shop, taking his afternoon tea in Harry’s office, idly passing the time lounging on Harry’s couch until he no longer had an excuse to remain, hovering by the door in what he was sure was an obtrusive manner as Harry tidied up his things before calling it a night— he still shied away from any advance Harry made.

For awhile, every outstretched hand pulled back with a look of mistrust m, every invitation to go out after they were out of the office rejected with vague politeness, every open-ended question to strike up a conversation left unanswered; and each time, a voice inside Eggsy brittle with dismay telling him to say just yes, just to go with Harry, just to answer him and each time, he ignores it in favour of shielding himself from all the different possibilities and outcomes, good or bad. A part of him left separated, boxed away in some protected corner that he made years ago, drug up from the depths when life threw him another curve ball: Dean and his thugs, street fights and standing around on corners late into the night, missions and training and sitting through bleary-eyed reports buzzing with adrenaline and caffeine. When he need to be practical. And try as he might to grab hold of it, free it from that cage, there was a divide he could not yet cross. 

He felt guilty for his own indecision, for being aware of it and still doing nothing for it. Because he was not so heartless or naive to not to see the flash of hurt on Harry’s face whenever he pulled back from the out stretched hand, turn down another invitation out, left a question hang in the air between; and yet, Harry never turned him away when he showed up at his office door, setting out to fetch tea and biscuits for them both, still talking amiably even if Eggsy only responds in half-hearted interjections and grunts, braving a few sentences when the situation called for it. Harry with that kind, unbothered patience that had at first irritated Eggsy for a multitude of reasons, like Harry was merely tolerating him more than anything. 

But the steady, calm demeanour never wavered or changed and Harry greeted Eggsy with a smile every time they saw each other, like he was genuinely delighted to have Eggsy there, expecting nothing more. 

After all this time, knowing Harry loves him with exception and without expectation, somehow it still manages to take Eggsy by surprise. 

\- -

Eggsy can't really remember the last time he had been in the meeting room above the shop on Savile Row. A few times, he had taken lunch of breakfast as Harry was coming in for the day and Eggsy was just finishing up his reports on his latest mission or—on what he was surprised to learn were incredibly rare occasions—when all the agents were required to sit in on a meeting. More often than not, he had been patched in over his glasses feed, staring out at a sea of green flickering hologram faces and a few real ones. 

As Eggsy had been told on numerous occasions by Harry with a sneer reminiscent of eating something bitter, the old Arthur had sat at the end of the table like a king waiting to be crowned; this Arthur did most of his work in his sprawling and ornate office at HQ, taking most of his agent meetings and missions debriefs and calls there. He was frequently seen wandering the various rooms, halls and training grounds on the estates with an keen, evaluating gaze over his agents. 

The tribunal had both been not at all what he had expected and far more nerve-wracking than he had anticipated. On the screen above the fireplace are grainy black and white photos of Decha and his men up on the screen, mostly taken from other agencies and special interest forces. Then, a formal government issued photo of Perry smiling politely alongside another picture of him in a baseball cap and jacket in a crowded market—an amateur Hollywood cover, drawing more attention that diverting, that Eggsy almost rolled his eyes when Arthur first showed him the photos—and another wide angle shot of him standing on the balcony of hotel in the Maldives. Lastly, an Interpol mugshot of Danny, sun-bleached blonde hair cut short above his ears, dark blue eyes glinting in the camera flare. 

Eggsy found himself coming back to this pictures over the course of the enquiry, staring at them while repeating back with a flat, unchanging tone what had happened over the six months he had been undercover, while the audio played back, transcript coming up on the screen in place of the photos, his own words displayed as if written in stone, unable to take them back. Eight identical Manila folders in front of every agent, containing his mission report, full transcript of the endless hours of recording, statements from Merlin, Freya and Gwen regarding their assessment of him before, during and after the mission. 

The agents staring up at him, intensely discerning eyes, the uncanny impression that he was being lead to a slaughter. Roxy, remaining composed but looking tightly wound, hands balled into fists on her lap, staring resolutely at Eggsy as he explained the state of the boarding flats the girls they trafficked stayed in. Arthur, looking attentive and grave, nodding his approval at intervals, clarifying when needed and remaining mostly silent. Bors, bright-eyed and eager at the start, wonderfully earnest, looking a positive wreck by the time Eggsy got to the day on the side of the road when they put a gun to his and Danny’s head. Percival, Tristan, Kay, Bedivere—hologram faces stalwart and impassive, observant and attentive, showing no emotion, no indication of what they believed or thought. 

Harry, in his usual seat, sitting comfortably with his hands folded in his lap, head tilted slightly to the right—left ear partially deaf from the gunshot in Kentucky. Eggsy always forgot that and he had faltered at the beginning, when he saw Harry adjust himself in his seat, holding up a hand to Arthur who looked as if he was to ask after him; a show of kindness, acceptance, that was unprecedented and kind.

Even when Eggsy wasn't looking at him, he felt Harry's sight on him the entire morning. And while it was just as keen, just as heavy as the other agents, it carried with it a softness that the others did not; no judgement or badly hidden contempt. No looks of derision or suspect passed between another agent across the table. No gazes of sympathy or fear or sadness. And while it wasn't acceptance, there was something like forgiveness, an understanding that seems so sincere, it's like a balm on Eggsy's live-wired, frayed nerves, steadying his trembling hands clasped behind his back; does something to calm his rapidly beating heart jumping up against his ribs and lodging into the back of his throat, the worry of it on the back of his tongue with a metallic taste, a thudding peal of panic coursing through him with a vibrating hum. 

He had nearly stumbled from the room when he was dismissed, a perfunctory nod directed at nobody in particular before he pushed open the double doors with his breath coming in short pants, blinking out into the dim hallway, trying to adjust from stepping out of the bright dining room. 

It takes a second for him to notice Merlin sitting in one of the leather chairs along the wall, typing quietly on his clipboard. They share a look before Eggsy drops himself in an identical chair a few seats down from Merlin and, with his elbows balanced on his knees, let's his head fall forward. 

Long minutes pass between them where the only sound is Merlin’s steady typing interrupted by the shop bell ringing below, jolting Eggsy out of his dazed reverie, slowly sitting up with his hand cradling his throbbing head. 

Merlin gives him a flat look over the top of his glasses in acknowledgement before going back to his work. Eggsy stares at him a little while longer before digging his phone from his pocket, sending a text to his mum saying he'd pick up supper on the way back from the shop, hovers with his thumb over Roxy’s number to send her a joking message and thinks better of it, locks the screen and shoves it back into his trousers. He stares at the doors, holding his breath to strain to see if he can hear what is being said beyond them. After a few more aggravating, fruitless minutes spent like this, he takes his phone back out to play the most mind-numbing game he has on his phone. 

That lasts a good fifteen minutes before he huffs impatiently and says, _They’ve been in there long enough, you think?_

_I'm sure it’s fine,_ Merlin comments without looking up. 

Eggsy snorts, slouches down in the chair, his suit jacket rucking up his back. _Don't know what to think. Barely said a word when I was in there, any of them._

_They know what they're doing,_ Merlin says diplomatically and Eggsy resists the urge to sneer, sulk even more like a child.

_Why ain’t you in there, then?_

Merlin’s typing falters—fingers poised just over the screen. He adjust his glasses. _Technically, I am not an agent at the round table._

_Oh,_ Eggsy replies flatly. 

He knew this—that despite Merlin being the final lifeline for all agents, for being their eyes in the dark, their second set of hands when backed into the corner, he had no actual say in how the organization is run at this level. Eggsy had been stunned the first time Merlin had addressed him as _sir_ one day shortly after he was knighted, had nearly choked on his tea, had wanted to laugh and realized that Merlin was serious. Eggsy had found it hard to adjust to that shift in balance, for Merlin to see and regard him not as a surly recruit but as an agent who required his undivided attention and expertise; sometimes he could only see Merlin as the intimidating man who had held up a body bag in an underground bunker within minutes of introducing himself and looked down on eight half-drowned recruits only mildly impressed, told them one of them had no parachute while plummeting to the earth. Only as the exceedingly composed and bit terrifying enigma he was. 

_When was the last time you had one of these?_

Merlin looks up from his tablet finally but his gaze lands in the middle distance. _Oh, years—must be years,_ he says _. I think before the last Lancelot trials._

Eggsy eyebrows raise, his knee bouncing. _Just that special, am I? Must be pretty bad to make them sit around like a bunch of judges, deciding my fate._

_It's not a common practice, no._ There's a frown on Merlin’s face, knitting his brows together, but it's not harsh or angry. _But it's not an indication of the severity of it. Arthur has decided his policy is to make things as fair and transparent as possible within the agency._ Merlin glances at Eggsy when he adds, _Harry's re-entry as a field agent will probably call for a tribunal._

_Ain't that Arthur's decision?_

_Mostly. He will make the final call. But he likes knowing what his agents are thinking. What they think of each other._

Eggsy jerks his chin towards the doors. _Really don't think I wanna know what they think of me._

_No one does. But… you'll be fine. This mission, your decisions—it’s a mess but you made a mistake. You'll pay your dues for it and continue on as we have._ Merlin seems to sense Eggsy growing agitation, the fidgeting. _Your heart was in the right place._

_Yeah,_ Eggsy mutters, now staring at his feet, the scuffs on his Oxfords he hasn't buffed out. _Cheers._

Merlin sighs, runs his hand over his mouth. He looks down at his tablet for a moment before taking his glasses off, setting them and his tablet aside, and looks at directly Eggsy, much like a stern, concerned schoolteacher. _Eggsy, I would like to apologize. I know—_ he holds up a hand, shaking his head— _I’ve had many chances to do so before now. Forgive me for being a stubborn fool for that. But I do want to apologize for everything that happened before the Perry mission. For not listening to you. I—vastly underestimated the situation. I think I was just afraid to admit how bad it had got with Harry,_ he concludes, his voice trailing off into something small, head bowed. 

Eggsy sits up a little straighter, letting his crossed arms and tense shoulders drop slightly. It's not like he had had ever intended for things to become this way between him and Merlin. In truth, Merlin’s obvious refusal to take any of Eggsy’s shit right from the start—not falling for his constant need to poke the beast, see how far he could push the boundaries of any kind of authority figure that crossed his path—had been a source of amusement for him, a refreshing outcome of the usual violent pushback he faced from his own need to deflect, the knee jerk reaction to antagonize when out of his depths. But there had been a few too many times when they found themselves facing off with each other over something minor, at odds with their disagreeing opinions, and it had eventually drove a wedge between them that neither could manage to dislodge. 

In a number of ways, he was sorry for it: for how Merlin had been instrumental in his place here in Kingsman, how Merlin held his life in his hands countless times, for how important Merlin was to Harry, and Harry to him. 

Maybe now, they could start again. Smooth things over, start again. Neither of them are bad men, Eggsy knows, and he thinks he’d like to be rid of the animosity that festered between them for so long, to have a friend in the man. 

_Yeah, it's all right._ At Merlin’s surprised look, Eggsy says, _I mean, you were mostly right. About how it weren't your job to look after him. I didn't treat you fair, neither. Not before I left and not during the mission. Not for a lot of things, really. I'm sorry, too._

_Thank you, Eggsy._

Eggsy nods. _Yeah. You, too, Merlin._ Then, he stands up, walks over to where Merlin is sitting and sticks out his hand. 

With a mild look of shock and a faint smile, Merlin shakes his hand. _You know my real name, now. You don't have to call me Merlin all the time._

Eggsy grins. _So I can call you Freddy?_

Merlin pulls his hand back, looking affronted. _Absolutely not._

_Fred it is, then,_ Eggsy says, beginning to laugh _._

Before Merlin can protest, the doors to the dining room swing open. Eggsy turns to see Arthur stepping out first, standing in front of the door, hand raised when Eggsy starts to step forward: wait. Merlin rises to his feet beside him, slipping on his glasses and folding his tablet underneath his arm; Eggsy feels the warm weight of his hand on his shoulder.

Arthur says something Eggsy can't hear, head inclined, before nodding and Lamorak walks out first, suit jacket folded over his arm; a short glance over his shoulder, unreadable, before he disappears down the steps into the shop. Bors, looking unnaturally subdued, accompanied by Harry, who is chatting amiably with him. Eggsy takes half a step forward, wanting to call out to either of them, but Merlin’s hand still resting on his shoulder keeps him in his spot. Then Roxy, the last of the agents physically present for the meeting, looking up at Arthur then over to Eggsy: tired, but apparent relief on her face. It's only then does the knot of panic in the back of his throat start to unravel. 

Once Roxy was down the steps, Arthur caught Eggsy's eye. He's smiling, a pleasant, kind relaxation about his posture. _Congratulations, Gawain,_ he says, hands behind his back. _Your spot remains at the round table._

And Eggsy thinks, yeah, maybe he is pretty lucky after all. 

\- -

Roxy meets him the next day at the shop, standing on the front steps in slim jeans, a loose t-shirt and sneakers, elbow resting on railing with her sunglasses pushed up on her head. It was her day off and the only obligation Eggsy had was bringing his suits in for alterations, insisted upon by Andrew when he had left the shop the previous day, strangely exhilarated by the outcome. 

_Hello, gorgeous,_ Roxy greets him with a smile, hopping down the steps to grab one of the garment bags he had slung over his shoulder. 

_Morning, beautiful._

The bell rings as they open the door, Andrew looking up from his catalogue of fabric samples, greeting them with a nod. The shop is always quiet this early in the day: throw pillows arranged on the sofas and the day's papers already set on the end tables, the pristinely wrapped bolts of wool and folds of silk catching the warm rays of light through the window, giving the shop that ethereal, hazy glow that accompanies dawn, the rising of the sun, the world not yet awoken for the day. 

_Is it too late for breakfast?_ Roxy asks raggedly, laying her armful out on the counter. 

_Never. Breakfast goes all day, don't it?_

_This is why you're my favourite, Eggsy._

She sits in the dressing room on a chair in the corner as he gets remeasured, waving Andrew off who gives her a curious look after he's asked Eggsy to undress to his underwear ( _I saw enough of him during training that it's lost all its charm on me_ , she remarks and deftly catches the bunched up shirt Eggsy had chucked in her direction), chatting aimlessly about whatever came to mind first—her failed first attempt at a new short range firearm being tested by R&D that left her with a nasty bruise on her knuckles, the dead birds—pigeons and robins and even a crow, _for god’s sake, where did she even find it_ —Lady was leaving on the front step, the upcoming beneficiary gala her family was hosting that she must absolutely attend and was trying to cultivate a new work obligation excuse she could use for it, the marathon she training for coming up at the end of the month that earned her a reproving look from Eggsy and her shushing him, _it's only twenty kilometres; Merlin had us running twice as far with a full field kit strapped to our backs in those ghastly boiler suits._

Andrew sends them out the shop doors at quarter to eleven, when Eggsy checks his watch stepping out onto Savile Row. Roxy, mind still set on cooked beans and bacon and mushrooms, steers them down the sidewalk, her hand gripped firmly on his elbow. There's a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant down a few blocks that they've been to before, a convenient distance and a mutual favourite of theirs; it was one of those newly established places with plants hanging from the ceiling bundled in macrame holders and open ductwork spray painted white, that seemed to attract all the hipsters that find their validation via their choice of locally sourced produce and gluten free bread. But it serves all day breakfast and a rather genius fry-up, slow cooking the beans for hours and using real bacon grease for the fried bread, so Eggsy gives it a pass and accompanies Roxy without much complaint. Seated, she gives her order to a guy with a man-bun of a cup of tea, glass of orange juice and extra mushrooms, and smiles warmly, pleased, when Eggsy orders his own plate, no tomatoes. 

_So,_ Eggsy starts after some time has passed and Roxy’s ordered her second cup of tea, swiping a torn piece of fried bread through his egg yolks, _did everyone have to light tiki torches and stand around banging on about me behind some curtain and then they'd snuff mine out if I was voted off the island?_

_Eggsy,_ she says, exasperated and chiding, setting her utensils down, looking upset _. It was actually horrible, I'll have you know. Sitting there, deciding your fate,_ she finished forlornly, eyes downcast, picking absently at the food in her lap. 

_Yeah—_ he says sympathetically, then grins and nudges her with his foot— _but knew you had my back, though._

The restaurant isn't absurdly busy but the early lunch crowd has started filling up the empty tables around them, bringing with them the droning hum of conversation, clinking plates and glasses, the bluster of wind and chimes as the door opens and closes.

_Quite a few did, actually,_ Roxy informs him _. Most were undecided. And a few who were ready to send you marching home._

It's not that he didn't expect it but to hear the truth of it leaves him with a cold weight in his gut. _Well, now you've got me wondering_ , he says instead, attempting a mild, curious look _. Who was who? Bet Bors was for. Or against? Nice enough bloke but I don't trust them posh guys as far as I can throw ‘em—no offense_.

Roxy sips at her tea, glancing out the window to the street. _I'm not really supposed to say anything._

_Oh, come on,_ he teases _. Just give me the first letters of their names, I'll figure it out from there._

_Eggsy, you stop it,_ she chides and Eggsy raises his hands in mocking surrender, laughing to himself. She sighs, setting down her cup, looking worn. _You're still at the table. That's the important thing._

_Yeah, you're right._ He's still smiling but it starts to fade the longer he thinks on it. He absently brushes his fingers on his pants, frowning at the grease stains now on his knees. _Did—did Harry say anything?_

_Yes,_ she says slowly, not looking directly at him. She reaches out for the pepper shaker, holding it in her fist loosely, as if already forgot about it. _He was very convincing. I think he even swayed Percival and Lamorak_.

He was strangely disappointed and not at all surprised that Percival and Lamorak had been opposed to him in some way—Percival had always talked to him with the cool regard one would to a stranger on the street and Eggsy had caught a glimpse of Lamorak in passing, sporting two particularly grotesque looking black eyes. _How’d he manage that?_

_Well,_ Roxy begins, looking very much like she'd rather not be saying anything at all but resigned to the fact that she would, _he said that, more or less, we had all done_ _things on missions that we knew did not follow protocol. In situations we felt called for it._ She lets go of the pepper shaker, bring her hands together and setting them in her lap. _Commented on your improvisation, said it was inspired. He went on about how he proposed you for a reason—that you are smart and adaptable and bring something to Kingsman he thought it was lacking._

_Lacking_ , Eggsy repeats numbly. He feels as if his head is in a vice, throbbing and heavy. 

Roxy's eyes go wide, distressed, and she says hurriedly, _Tenacity, I mean. Initiative, is what I think he said. He was adamant you get another chance to prove yourself. I don't know how pleased Arthur was given... well, everything._

_Let me guess—Arthur thought he was doing it because we were together._

Roxy seems to pick up on the choice of words, were. She looks down at her plate. _Yes, I imagine so._

_Probably right, too,_ Eggsy says coldly. When he pushes his chair back, the feet scrape across the floor and a few heads turn to look at them. 

_Oh. Eggsy, it really wasn't like that—please, wait—_

But he's already standing, dodging out of the way of her outstretched hand, digging into his pockets to throw some money on the table—and his fingertips catch on the ring in his pocket. He falters, for just a moment, heart tripping in his chest before he hurriedlythrows the money down and turns towards the door, Roxy quickly standing to place her hand on his shoulder, telling him to wait, stay. But he shrugs out of her grip, shoving his hands back into his pockets, calling out, _I'll call you later, Rox_ , before slipping out the door past two men just stepping inside, side stepping them, head already tucked against the wind. 

\- -

He had always been prone to mercurial moods, sliding from a content neutralness to sudden indignation, struck like a match and left to burn brilliant. It's not that he had a temper in a traditional sense—he controlled himself well enough, never went off the handle like some of the blokes around the estates—but any kind of heated, strong feeling he had grabbed hold of and rode the tail winds of every ill-made decision and follow it to its disastrous end. Every instance had it's own different outcome: first, it had been pulling stupid stunts goaded on by the gang of miscreant boys he had roamed with as kid, tagging public buildings in daylight, kicking at the backs of police cars, nicking an iPod shuffle or pair of shoes from the store. Then, it had channeled into alcohol, drugs when he got his hands on them, wandering half-fucked out of his mind in the middle of the night, completely detached from whatever rage as simmering in him. For the longest time, he had free running: the near-death exhilaration, heart-pounding fear that straddled excitement, that was unmatched, even in Kingsman; launching himself gracefully from rooftops and across roads congested with traffic and scaling up fire escapes to stand above the rest of London, all but defying gravity, so near flying that he never found anything else that came close to it, the exact moment when his body was suspended the most free he had ever felt. 

But just as much as he was ready to give into every anger-induced stupid impulse, he was just as able to stew on something endlessly, which usually turned out worse. 

What had started as a flash of anger, disbelief, at the restaurant and diffused into a minor annoyance as he waited for the connecting train had built up again to an incomprehensible anger by the time he was walking down Stanhope Mews towards Harry's house. Shaky and agitated, he had fished the spare key out from the potted plant near the front door (scoffing that for a man who took so much pride in his secrecy was still as predictable as the rest of them) and let himself inside, his conviction not even allowing him the decency and courtesy of knocking on the door so Harry could let him in. 

When he doesn't hear footsteps above or in the back of the house, he marches through the dining room and into the sitting room where he sees the garden doors swung open and Harry, in a pair of battered khakis and t-shirt, kneeling by a bed of flowers with his back turned to the door. 

_I told you,_ Eggsy says, Harry startling, head whipping around as his hand darting out to take hold of the Beretta balanced on the paving stones to his right. Eggsy doesn't flinch, steps boldly down off the landing even with the gun already pointed at him, Harry’s chest rising and falling rapidly as he takes in the situation. 

As Harry lowers the gun, running his other hand over his eyes, he sighs, _Eggsy, for fuck’s sake—_

_I told you_ , Eggsy interrupts, _not to do things for me just to make me feel better, get on my good side. I'm supposed to be trusting you again, it's what you said, and then you pull a stunt like that?_

_A stunt like what?_

_Roxy told me what you said._ At Harry's perplexed look, Eggsy continues on, spurred on by the realization that Harry had a gun pointed at him, that he was tired and hurt and disappointed beyond comprehension. _At the tribunal. About how clever and great I was, banging on that I was fucking ‘inspired’ or some shit. I fucked up that mission, Harry, we all fucking know it. I know it, they know it, Arthur fucking knows it and you sure as fuck know it. I don't need you defending me when I don't deserve it! God,_ Eggsy exclaims, hands coming up, waving and gesturing uselessly, _what happened to transparency or fucking whatever?_

Harry, poised and self-assured as always, even with grass stains on his knees and dirt smudges above his brow, regards Eggsy with a stony gaze. _She didn't tell you, then, that I also made it very clear I did not approve of your tactics._

_What?_ Eggsy snaps incredulously; his hands, resting on top of his head, slip down. 

_What you did… it was absolutely reckless and dangerous._ Harry pulls at the fingers of his gardening gloves, tugs them off and sets them beside the discarded Beretta. _It very nearly lost us a solid case against a horrific man that Metro and Interpol have been trying to take down for years. You made a logistical nightmare for our staff to sort through, destroyed potential evidence and killed valuable witnesses. Dozens of women, gone—_ Harry waves his hand in front of him, maybe in a mockery of Eggsy's own actions, and it makes his skin crawl with shame— _into the night and untraceable. You got hurt; you're extremely lucky that's all it was. You let emotion rule your actions. I actually highly recommended, as your superior and your mentor, that you not be put on deep undercover missions anymore._

_You fucking what?_ Eggsy nearly shouts. _You fucking think you can just stick your nose into everything, tell me what I can and can't do—_

Harry raises his hand, shaking his head; despite himself, Eggsy falls silent, something about Harry's posture and tone making him listen, mostly stunned that Harry has remained so calm. _I don't take them, either. Deep under covers. Neither did the old Lancelot, nor does Kay. In time, I'm sure some of our newer agents will come to make the same decision._ Harry lifts himself from where he's kneeling to sit on the edge of the flower bed, indicating for Eggsy to join him. 

Eggsy hesitates, rocking back on his heels, still trying to hold on to that last bit of receding anger to motivate him; but it seems as quickly as it came before, it's gone just as fast, fading out from him in one trembling exhale, replaced now with a pang of humiliation that blooms hot on his cheeks. He scrubs at his face, sniffs, half-heartedly peevish and thoroughly chastened before he relents and sits down beside Harry. 

_Makes sense, I guess_ , Eggsy says meekly with a shrug. He's hunched forward, arms still crossed, knowing he's sulking, mostly out of stubborn contrition. He glances sideways at Harry. _You've never been on one?_

_Not for almost fifteen years._ Harry's sitting with his usual gentry posture, though relaxed around the shoulders, hands clasped loosely in front of him; despite the gloves he had been wearing, there is dirt under his fingernails, the scattering of scars across the backs of his hands and down his wrist. The hand closest to him has a bruise across the knuckles, mottled fading to yellow and green, and Eggsy wants to reach out, cover it with his own hand, trace this thumb soothingly over it. _There is a reason that they are rare within Kingsman and why you are given the option to take them, not assigned. Distance and inexperience with such missions has left much of our table—unfamiliar of the hardships of assignments of this nature,_ Harry says with a sad sigh, fixing his posture so he's sitting up straighter. _They truly don’t remember or even know the toll it takes on an agent. They are notoriously difficult to finish—and you did. A feat not accomplished by many,_ Harry ends this looking somewhat pleased, an almost smile gracing his lips, a sense of joy that crinkles around his eyes when he turns to look at Eggsy. 

But only sours Eggsy's mood further, as he feels his face turning down in condemnation, makes him want to fold in on himself, to retreat. It's a complicated tangle of conflicting thoughts—maybe it was the unmistakable sincerity with which Harry told him all this that had him even more disgruntled and agitated, followed closely behind by the disdain at knowing Harry is telling the truth, that it is the truth, and knowing all of this making him more hurt for it. It wasn't that Harry was reprimanding him, or being condescending—but Eggsy thinks it might be easier to accept if Harry was. At least he would have footing with which to steady himself, ground with which to dig his heels resolutely in, something to fight back against. It's what he's always known best; this, aware of his downfalls and having neither reproof or pitying remarks meant to mollify him, was uncharted territory and he was floundering. 

As if sensing his internal struggle, Harry amends reassuringly, _Eggsy, given the circumstances, you did admirably_. _It will take some time to track Perry, but we will. In the meantime_ , _it cannot be ignored that you hindered a sizeable trafficking ring and did away with the worst of them, if sloppily done._

Eggsy winces; Arthur had made it clear from their first meeting after he got back that losing Decha and his men was their greatest setback. Eggsy protests, _But the case against Perry—_

_Will go through_ , Harry interjects, a note of impatience, gentle and understanding even then. _It will._

Eggsy sucks at his teeth, blows out his cheeks. _Right,_ he mutters, dropping his chin to his folded arms resting atop his knees. 

In the day, the garden looks much different, some of the otherworldly enchantment of the first night he saw it stripped back: the garland of lights swaying and bobbing in a breeze tunneling through the houses, the colours of the flowers dampened by the glaring morning sun, not a cloud in the sky, the pots with their faded ceramic exteriors and chips at the base. But it's not as if it's lacking any of the charm it had, still hidden away from the monotonous hum and bustle of Gloucester Road, a place that seems just a much a secret as before, something all their own—he thinks, bleakly, as if things can still be referred to in terms of them, theirs.

He misses Harry, misses him even as they sit here, side by side, stuck at the edge of where he knows what he wants, how badly he wants it, and terrified of what will come after if he does have it and it's turns out not to be enough.

_It will take time but what you did, Eggsy—it wasn’t in vain._ Harry turns to face him, his knee knocking against Eggsy's, causing Eggsy to start, sit up halfway. _I said what I did because—because while your actions were questionable, I understand what lead you there. Why you did what you did and how many of us could have very well done the same._ He looks self-conscious, his hands twisting into each other. Eggsy takes this in, the restless motion of his hands wrapping and clenching, a dull, laden feeling shifting and rising around his heart. As if by reflex, Eggsy reaches out to cover Harry's hands with his own, squeezes them reassuringly. Harry's eyes flicker uncertainly between Eggsy's face and their joined hands, before he continues slowly, _God knows I've had my share. We have our code and our protocol… but we are also human. Not every misstep is a failure._

_I’m sorry, I shouldn't—_ Eggsy shakes his head, turning the hand that has a hold on Harry's over, letting his head drop back to rest on his arm. 

Harry doesn't ask him to continue, to explain. 

A long silence of watching Harry, the small and familiar shifts of his shoulders and arms, the softhearted sighs, his own shifting hands, fingers pressing into Eggsy’s palm, brushing over the back of his hand; calming, subdued by the comforting touches, feeling as if he could drift or float if it weren't for the undeniable anchor, the almost surreal tangibility of Harry holding him here. He sounds far away to even himself when he says, _Harry, I'm just—I want this to mean something. If we're doing this, starting over, starting again… I want it to be for the right reasons._

_It will be,_ Harry says softly. _It is, it is for the right reasons. I promise you that._ Harry shakes one of his hands free, bringing it up to cup the side of Eggsy's face, brush his fingers over his cheek, trailing up into his hair, resting at his temple. 

And something about it makes him shiver, with long lost happiness and affirmation; it makes him feel dazed, relieved, tended to and loved. 

_You promise me,_ Eggsy murmurs, mouth ticking at the corner with the beginnings of a smile. _Like the sounds of that._

_You have the most remarkable heart of anyone I have ever met,_ Harry says quietly, fingers tracing the shell of Eggsy's ear, eyes gliding over him. _And the last thing I would ever want is to see Kingsman—or anyone—take that from you. It's what I saw in you, from the very start—_ Harry's hand stills, a pensive, distracted look coming over him— _It's why I love you, so dearly. All I’ve wanted everyone else to see it, too._

Eggsy has to close his eyes: the intensity, now, of Harry's hand on him, their intertwined fingers, blocking out the rest of the world until it's just them. His own attempts to say something trip up in his chest, weigh in the back of his throat and he feels like whatever he could say no would never be enough; and yet, he also knows that Harry wouldn't care. And that’s probably the most miraculous, beautiful part. 

_Did you spend the last six months writing out speeches or what?_ Eggsy says with a wet, shaky laugh—he has to dig the palms of his free hand into his eyes, breath deeply through his nose to steady himself. 

_It was very quiet without you here_ , Harry says, combing his fingers through Eggsy's hair, making Eggsy squirm and lean into the touch, never wanting to leave, for Harry to let go. _Have you eaten?_

Eggsy nods, humming. 

_Okay._

With a final stroke of his fingers, curled down into the soft hairs across Eggsy's neck, Harry separates from him, standing to his feet; Eggsy groans at the loss, pressing his hand to his face to stifle it.

_Ruined a moment, you did,_ Eggsy grumbles, glaring up at him with a preoccupied annoyance, head canted at an awkward angle, far too content to unravel himself from his sunken, lazy posture. 

_I apologize,_ Harry says genially but in a way that implies he's just as sorry as Eggsy is mad _. But I still need to eat._

_Yeah, alright,_ Eggsy calls after him, watching Harry head into the house, one last look over his shoulder before he ducked inside. 

Left alone in the garden, Eggsy takes to looking it over with a more thorough assessment. It's when his gaze lands on the corner brimming with varied blooms of colour that he starts to notice. Standing up, he ambles over to the raised bed, peering down on the flowers with a wary contemplation. He bends down to cup the perfectly rounded petals of one luridly pink flower in between his fingers: zinnia. One of the regulars that filled the extravagant clusters of bouquets Harry would bring home with him, purchase on their afternoon walks out, placing the bundle of parchment wrapped flowers on the dining room table, retrieving a glass vase from the sideboard and filling it with water at the kitchen sink, testing the temperature with his wrist. 

When Eggsy looks down the row, he recognizes more of them, of the flowers that he had gravitated towards when he got over the weirdness of _wanting_ flowers at all and Harry would allow him to pick from the buckets at corner stalls to his content: sweet asylum, daffodil, aster, and dahlia huddled near the paving edge, a towering row of sunflowers that he had once bought on a whim and had inordinately fell in love with bent towards the afternoon rays along the garden wall, the ubiquitous rose bushes of ivory white and pale pink and vibrant red at the farthest edge ( _Roses? A little cliche—They're romantic, ain't they? I want something like that—Of course, darling_ ). He stands there, looking at the garden in awe, on the verge of laughing in wonder and an almost painful kind of happiness, at the care with which it was all laid out, meticulously tended to and kept. Somehow, all this time later, Harry still manages to take him by surprise, to appear out of nowhere with some wondrous quiet display of affection that reminds Eggsy just how much he loves him. Ever the gentlemen, even in grand displays of affection. 

When Harry reappears a few minutes later, a plate with a bacon sandwich and a glass of water, Eggsy turns to look at him, hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets, right hand curled around the ring. 

_Your flowers,_ Eggsy says, jerking his chin to the side, indicating the rows near the front. 

_Ah_. Harry smiles that small, almost invisible smile as he sets down his plate on the patio table. _Is it terribly rude to admit I was hoping you'd notice?_

_No,_ Eggsy says, returning the smile. He glances over his shoulder. _I like ‘em._

_I am very glad you do. You're free to look around, if you want. I don't mind._

He wants to say something more— _thank you_ , maybe, but Harry looks content to eat his lunch, to let Eggsy wander. So, in consideration of Harry and because all the words he wants to say don't seem to fit the moment, Eggsy wanders around a bit. He discovers a miniature trickling fountain tucked in alongside a neatly trimmed viburnum bush, water flowing from one pebbled stone pot to the next, coalescing in a round base. A dark-stained wooden box filled with succulents mounted beside the kitchen window catches his eye. Vining strawberry plants, some of the flowering buds giving way to small white fruit, twisted artfully around a pyramid shaped trellis, surrounded by staked pea plants and needly cucumber vines. 

By the time he come back around to where Harry is seated, Harry has slouched back into his chair, regarding Eggsy with such open fondness that it makes Eggsy's breath catch in his throat, warmth unfurling like a ribbon through his chest. Eggsy still has his hand clenched around the ring in his pocket, cool metal digging into the sensitive undersides of his fingers _._

_Harry,_ he says. 

Harry looks up at him. 

_Can we talk?_

_Of course._ Harry gestures to the seat opposite him, the one Eggsy had sat in all those weeks before, the first time he had come back here—come back home. 

Eggsy sits down deliberately, taking his time to sift through how he wanted to approach this. If this what it was going to be, if he was going to take this chance again—he needed to know everything. As did Harry. 

_You've got that look._

_What look?_

A wary, faint smile. _Like you're still trying to make up your mind over something._

Eggsy sighs, defeated. 

_Eggsy, I'm not asking you to decide—_

_I love you, Harry,_ Eggsy says and Harry clamps his mouth shut. _Don't think I ever stopped. Even after—even through everything, I loved you. I was so angry, for so long. And I didn't want to love you because—fuck, it all hurt more because I did, you know?_

Harry nods solemnly but elects to say nothing, to let Eggsy continue. 

Eggsy sighs again, cupping his hands over his mouth for a moment, wanting to compose himself. _But I couldn't—I can't. You're everything to me, you know that, right? You're… the best part of everything to me and what you did, what you said to me..._

_Oh, Eggsy,_ Harry murmurs, remorseful and concerned. _I am so sorry. I will always be sorry._

_I know,_ and it comes out sounding more impatient than he intended. _I know, Harry, I know you are and I know you love me. But what I want is for you to trust me._

For a moment, Harry looks scared before he composes himself, smooths it over into a neutral, accepting expression. _I do._

_I need you to trust me enough to tell me—everything. I want to know everything, Harry._ He leans forward across the table, takes Harry's hands in his again. _You can trust me, Harry. You know you can. Promise me you will._

Harry promises him. 

\- -

Harry tells him about Kentucky. 

Eggsy knows all about Kentucky: a video feed replayed countless times, the crack of a gunshot and the skittering halt of video just as the view jerks and tilt back, an expanse of vivid blue sky before he starts it over again, to when the church doors swing open and the moment the sun is so bright, it glares off the lenses and just for a second, nothing else can be seen but a flash of brilliant, blinding white. 

Harry tells him about what it's like to kill so many people and feel nothing but and, like a suffocating crashing wave, to feel everything, and what it's like to stand in that church in the aftermath and feel everything he never has before. He tells him how he's afraid of losing control or not having it at all, how the smell of cordite makes him light-headed and sick, how he wakes up and forgets where he is, at home, for just a minute long enough to panic and he believes he's back there and he feels like he can't breathe. 

He can't explain why this, after years and years of doling out death sentences, was the catalyst. 

Eggsy traces the lines on Harry’s open palm. His mum told him once that you could tell your future by the lines on your hand, the folds and creases and how they run parallel, merge and never meet across the palm; fortune and love and long years to live. Harry's hands are covered in so many scars, cut through all the delicate wrinkles that were supposed to map out your place in the world, Eggsy doesn't think it would make much sense to try read his future; he doesn't need to, he thinks. Not anymore. Not so much about the future, but the present and how they shape it, and how he will mark his own path. 

_Do you trust me?_ Harry asks this and Eggsy blinks up at him, startled that he would even have to ask. 

_Yeah. Yeah, course I do._

_So—will you tell me?_

Eggsy frowns, staring at his hands, knowing this was coming. _Tell you what?_

Harry holds the side of Eggsy's face, reverent and kind. _Everything. Anything you are ready to tell me._

_Yeah._ Eggsy nods, keeps the mounting panic at bay but tightening his grip on Harry. _Yeah, okay._

He now knows just how hard this must have been for Harry: how he kept so many of his own things hidden, afraid of what would happen when he brought them back to light. He realizes he's not the only one with wounds left bleeding from this. He knows now just how terrifying it is to make yourself vulnerable, even with the person you love most. So used to doing it alone, letting someone in was a risk that they had both not been willing to make but had made it anyway, hoping it was worth it in the end. 

Eggsy thinks it is. It always will be, when it comes to Harry. 

So, Eggsy starts with the cassette tape, hidden in the second kitchen drawer, and his mom and dad, dancing.

It's not everything, not right now, only scratching the surface of the years spent building the layers to protect themselves from the world. But Harry will tell him, he promises, in time. Eggsy lets him take his time and Harry let's him take his. They've promised each other at least that: in time.

At some point, Eggsy says, _I can't sleep._

He regretted it as soon as he had said it: not for what he had said, but for the look that had come over Harry's face when he had. His own type of remorse—contrite and pinched, pulling his features in sharply, unforgivingly—and a downcast of his eyes, frail susceptibility to this, how it left him open, putting all of the weak spots of his carefully crafted armour on display. 

_I space out sometimes,_ Eggsy says, sitting almost perfectly still save for his bouncing leg, _just walking down the street. I can still smell it, see it, everything about that—that place._

Harry nods knowingly, his hand wrapped around his empty water glass. Eggsy doesn't mind that he's not saying anything—he knows that Harry knows. It doesn't need to be said, not right now. Not when Harry already has said it in his own way. 

_You ever get used to it?_ Eggsy asks. _All of it. Living with it… with what you did._

_Some are easier than others._

_Tell me I did what I had to. What I did was right._

Eggsy knows that the answer Harry will give won’t be enough to assuage the guilt that he brings with him like a black, heavy shadow in chains, strapped to his wrists, his neck, his ankles, pulling him down with every step, years of wrong paths taken and decisions made of fear and anger and retribution crawling back up to take their place. 

_Our decisions are never easy_ , Harry answers and Eggsy finds that it's okay. 

\- -

Eggsy wakes without realizing he had fallen asleep. 

At some point, the sun had started to dip low in the sky and the pleasant warmth cooling as the clouds began to converge, and they had moved inside. A blur of words, conversation in unhurried and patient voices, his own heart thundering in his chest, Harry sitting across from him, never letting go of him. 

He doesn't remember exactly what he said, the things he told; almost ashamed at it. But then he stops himself—if he was to ask this much of Harry, he had to give just as much back. He wanted truth; and this included his truth, too. 

The light blue glare of the television flickers across the wall, the light scattered through the holes of the afghan draped over his shoulders, bunched up in his fists over his head. He watches the indistinct blur of people moving on the screen, the volume turned down so he can hear the dull hum of traffic, the discordant blare of a horn, the pendulum clock ticking away on the wall, music carrying through from the room over. Eggsy lays curled up on the couch, waking gradually, digging his fingers into the corners of his eyes and stifling a yawn, the pop in his sore joints when he stretches. 

Sorting through the fuzzy daze of half-sleep, he can hear Harry moving around in the kitchen. With the door to the dining room left open, there's cupboard doors opening and closing, water running through the rattling pipes, cups or cutlery or plates being set on the countertop. Reminiscent of how many evenings they had spent together, like this or with Harry in his chair, book open on his lap, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose; all the right familiar sounds of what they had once shared; that effortless, happy domesticity that he so took for granted when he didn't realize how much he would need it now. 

When the doorbell rings, Harry calling out for whoever was there to wait, it startled Eggsy out of his drowsy reverie enough that he stood, tossing the blanket aside and shuffling towards the dining room just as he hears the front door open, Harry greeting what seems to be a delivery person. Exchange of polite words, money, rustling of bags, _have a good night—yes, thank you, you as well_ , and Harry appears around the corner, holding a brown paper takeaway by the folded top. 

Harry had showered. Eggsy noticed it immediately: the tell tale, spun-candy fluff of his hair after he washed it and let it dry on its own, foregoing the arduous process of taming his hair. Wearing a Cambridge shirt, threadbare and almost impossibly soft Eggsy knows from experience with his face nuzzled against very shirt, ironed plaid pajama bottoms, and bare feet, it was the picture of Harry at his most relaxed—when time after work allowed him this luxury, the days off in the mornings when the only thing calling their names was coffee and toast in bed. 

_Ah—and he awakens,_ Harry says lightly, with a smile, when he spots Eggsy hovering by the doorway. _I imagine you're hungry. I hope you don't mind—I ordered in. Chinese seemed a safe bet._

Eggsy stares blankly, a delayed response, before shrugging, keeping his shoulders hunched up a little, arms folded. There was still light outside, the sheer curtains drawn, filtering the unnatural orange and yellow glow of the streetlights into something softer, mixed with the hazy blue of the sky washed through with pink and gold, giving the room that warm, indistinct feeling that seemed to permeate the house, settle comfortably into both of the them. The shadows fall over Harry, his body light-limned with dusk and the oncoming moonlight, making him younger for how it softened the lines on his face, the sharp set to his shoulders. 

Harry looks at him sadly, uncertainly, when he doesn't answer. _Unless you would like to go home—_

_No,_ Eggsy says quickly and it's the truth—he doesn't want to go anywhere. He doesn't want to be anywhere else but here. _No, I’m fine. This is good._

_I'll set this out_ , Harry says, waving him off when Eggsy steps forward to help take out the containers. 

Eggsy goes to the bathroom to wash the remaining vestiges of sleep from his drowsy body, splash cold water on his face and take a deep breath. He's greeted with the same damn butterflies on the wall and stuffed dead dog standing watch over the toilet that, despite Eggsy's persistence suggestions and then outright pleading, that Harry refused to take down, the stubbornness maybe hardened by Eggsy's determination to be rid of them all together. And then, one day, suddenly, how Eggsy went from slightly concerned about these hobbies and what it meant when Harry was inordinately attached to these weird relics, to accepting the fact that it was a part of Harry that would be there, always: his eccentric idiosyncrasies, his delightful and strange habits that made Eggsy grin with an odd happiness. 

Standing with the water running over his hands, he’s aware he's reached some crucial moment and he stares hard at himself in the little shaving mirror, so it would implant itself in his mind. A truth he had ignored and side-stepped for months, moved around gracelessly in hopes that it would somehow resolve itself or he would never find himself in the position where he would have to address it, caught in a push-pull hesitation, indecision and doubt keeping him an arm’s length from it. He's made up his mind before he even turns off the taps, reaching for the towel to dry his hands. 

When he steps out of the bathroom, the ring is in the palm of his hand. 

Harry has opened all the containers, standing at the corner of the table between his and Eggsy's chairs, setting out folded linen napkins on the plates.

With a dull clatter that almost gets lost in the music playing over the portable speaker in the corner and the chiming of the hall clock, Eggsy sets the ring on the table, close to where Harry's hand was resting as he placed the napkins. He lingers with the palm face down, covering it, before he steps back and shoves his hand back into his jean pocket. Harry looks down at the ring set between them, an indescribable confliction in his expression. 

_I was waiting for the right time_ , Eggsy explains after a long silence. He shrugs, looking down at his feet. _But I dunno... maybe there ain't ever gonna be one._

_No,_ Harry says mildly. _I suppose there really isn’t._

Even though Eggsy's looking down, he can see—or sense—the movement of Harry's hand towards the ring, hesitating with his fingers just above it, maybe reaching out to run his finger over it before setting his hand back down. 

_That’s not really the point though, is it?_ Eggsy tries to amend. _Or it is but… it don’t matter, in the end. Maybe I don't need to wait._ Eggsy huffs out a breath, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. _And, I dunno, I’ve been carrying it around forever and I always thought—always had these plans, just waiting to see what would happen and…_ He drops his hand to his side, lets his loosely clenched fist bounce off his thigh restlessly, tilting into his own uncertainty suddenly. _It's stupid, I guess._

_It's not_ , Harry interjects quietly. _It's not stupid, Eggsy._

Eggsy looks up to catch Harry's gaze to find him already looking, a mix of hope and regret making his mouth downturned, his eyes soft and wet. They hold each other’s stare for a moment before Harry lowers himself heavily into the chair behind him, head turning back to regard the ring. 

_I don't know what in the world you see in a man like me._ It's not a statement made of self-pity or pride, but of genuine unknowing, the same worry they had found themselves at a stalemate over so many other times, just reworked into various intentions, different words used to convey the same meaning: _you should not be with me._

(Eggsy remembers standing in the living room. _Their_ living room, Harry had to keep reminding him. _What’s mine is yours._ Eggsy had wanted to ask if that meant it all, the secrets he kept and the fears he never spoke of and the anger he tried to hide. But they are standing in the living room and Harry is grinning at him and his eyes are bright, clear. He had been laughing. Eggsy has his hands out. There's music playing, _but I can't help falling in love_ , and he's beckoning Harry from the doorway. 

This memory drifting, detached from circumstance, not traceable to any definitive place. It had happened in so many different ways, so many different times. Eggsy, scrolling through his phone for the perfect song and already swaying with the promise of melody, and Harry, standing apart and smiling and waiting, endlessly patient when it came to Eggsy. 

_Wanna dance, love?_

And Harry stood there, leaning against the doorway. With that smile that stole the world. His arms folded, one hand across his lips like he can hide his joy, but he doesn't do that much anymore. Not with Eggsy around. His hair unkempt, falling across his eyes, curled around his ears. They had spent one of those rare mornings in and Eggsy was so wonderfully in love, he could think of nothing else but this and all the moments that seemed to last, nothing but Harry and the happiness it brought him and all the good things to come from this. And even in that moment, even with all that was to come, nothing would ruin it. Not even now. 

Suns and stars and all the light in the sky.)

Eggsy drops to his knees in front of Harry. He touches the sides of Harry's face. The corner of his mouth, the line of his brow, fingers brushing back the greying hair at his temples. He runs his hands, down Harry's arms until they come to rest over his hands, where Eggsy gently pulls the clasped fingers apart, pressing his fingers into the soft creases and folds of Harry's hands.

_Just about everything, I suppose,_ Eggsy says and leans up just enough to kiss Harry.

It's misaligned, teeth catching, Harry’s startled gasp dying on Eggsy's lips as Eggsy lurches forward inelegantly, to capture Harry's mouth. Brief and burning and delirious, Eggsy feels himself short of breath quickly, Harry so close, their hands gripping each other tightly, bordering painful. Eggsy won't let go for anything; he knows Harry won't either. A moment of awkwardness, of relearning each other; a sound reverberating from somewhere deep within, a shuddering pleasant moan that tingles Eggsy lips. 

Hands come apart, Harry framing the sides of Eggsy's face, pulling him closer, kissing him deeper; Eggsy bracing his hands across Harry's thighs, rubbing circles with his thumbs on the tender inside. 

_Eggsy._

Eggsy kisses him again, unable to stop himself. Harry laughs shakily, fingers carding through Eggsy's hair, cradling the back of his head. 

_Darling, please._

And just like the first time, and every time that had come after, Eggsy's heart races: darling. _You've got that look again._

Eggsy opens his eyes to look at Harry. _The thinking one?_

Harry hums in affirmation. 

_Waiting for you to ask me to stay._

_Please stay._ Harry whispers, pressing tender kisses across Eggsy's cheek, down his jaw. 

Eggsy doesn't think anything could take him away from here, nothing could convince him that he should be anywhere but here, being held and loved by Harry. To be taken away from loving Harry back. 

And Eggsy wonders how he lived without this for so long. 

\- -

Eggsy wakes and knows exactly where he is. 

Unaccompanied by what had become the apprehension of expected mounting panic, of shortened breath and the ingrained, learned reaction to search for his gun, half-blind in the dark, raw fear coursing through him. The deliriouspanic-filled minutes where he thinks he is thousands of miles away with another's blood on his hands; with fat, gnarled fingers around his throat; gunshots like echoes thrown back at him, growing more hollow as they build and overlap and ring in his head. 

He lays where he is for a drowsy moment as the room comes back into clarity, trickling through the shadowed foggy corners of his mind, burrowed into Harry's side, cheek resting on Harry's shoulder, arm wrapped around his waist. Feeling the rising and falling of his chest, steady and even and slow. 

Instead, he is greeted with familiar things, things that have come to mean home: staring up at the high coffered ceiling, curling his toes into the sheets bunched at the end of the bed where they had been kicked away during the night. Harry, asleep on his stomach, arms tucked beneath his pillow, head haloed in pale milky light and by the soft unruly curls, beside him. Comforts of habits left unchanged: a glass of water on the bedside table and folded reading glasses beneath the lamp, the stack of books by the west window, their clothes in a mess on the floor, the curtains pulled open wide and the first rays of morning spilling through, warming the floorboards beneath his bare feet when he stands. 

He toes through the pile of clothes heaped on the floor, putting on his underwear, jeans and the first shirt he grabs, which happens to be Harry's. It's wider at the shoulders, longer at the torso, sitting and bunched in awkward spots—but it smells of Harry, of clean dirt and his spicy cologne and the shampoo he uses. He watches Harry for a minute, sleeping soundly, the expanse of his naked back and fluff of hair the only thing visible of him amongst the pillows and covers, before slipping out the bedroom door and shutting it with a soft click. 

Downstairs, the takeaway from the night before is still on the table, just as they had left it. Sighing and smiling to himself, Eggsy cleans up the food, binning it with a bit of guilt. He wipes down the table with a cloth from the sink. He picks up the ring, already moving to slip it back into his pocket when he pauses—the weight of it surreal and more substantial, cool and heavy in his palm. He sets it back on the table in front of Harry's seat. 

It's standing in front of the sink, filling the coffee carafe and staring out over the garden, that he gets it in him to make pancakes. Something him and Harry had done often, weekend or weekdays, it didn't seem to matter much; any morning they had to spare to take their time to sip coffee and make mounds of pancakes they knew neither of them could possibly eat all by themselves. That sends him digging around the familiar cupboards, pleased to find everything in its usual place—flour bag with the top clipped shut, glass canister of sugar and plastic container of baking soda, dark amber bottle of vanilla extract right in the back behind the spices, half a carton of milk enough for a doubled recipe, half a dozen eggs in the side shelf. It's enough to make a good stack of pancakes but he feels it calls for something more special: whipped cream, macerated strawberries, real maple syrup in the glass bottles shaped as leaves. 

It's a ten minute walk to the Sainsbury’s on Cromwell, having to dodge in and out of the morning rush of pedestrians heading towards South Kensington—yawning students scrubbing their eyes with backpacks slung over their shoulders and men in business suits talking excitedly on mobiles drinking coffee, mums pushing prams and herding small kids through the crowds. Overhead, the sky is half blue and shining, half streaked in grey clouds threatening rain. The heat rises from the sidewalk in unbearable rushes of condensed air, made worse by the humidity of the oncoming storm like a cloak wrapped around the city, making people irritable, excited. It's not far to walk, one he's made enough times, but the ache in his bum right knee, nearly shattered in Bucharest from a bad landing and probably not fully healed before he was back out in the field on his insistence. 

In the weeks leading up to the tribunal, it had been incredibly hot. No rain. Baked, cindery dust whirling on the street corners, hot gusts of stale air blowing up from the underground, storefronts glittering as waves of heat rose idly from sidewalks and streets as people moved about languidly in the heat, almost unbearable even by noon. Whatever reprieve came through the night was gone by morning, lingered well into the evening once the sun had gone, the stone and glass and pavement unrelenting of the heat it absorbed during the day.

Rain, he thinks to himself as he's walking home, would be nice. 

He's not sure what he expected—nothing, actually, the thought never entering into his mind, too preoccupied with the menial tasks before him to start breakfast—when he stepped in the house almost half an hour after he left, a bag around his wrist, to find Harry sitting on the stairs with his hands over his mouth, wearing only a pair of wrinkled pyjama bottoms and an expression of reluctant confusion and dismay. 

Harry's head snaps up, blank eyes clearing as if coming out of a dream, before Eggsy can even say hello or ask what's wrong and Harry quickly scrambles to his feet. His hair, still not combed, disheveled from restless fingers carding through, is standing up at odd angles and if it wasn't for the severity of the look on Harry's face, Eggsy would have laughed, smoothed down the stray locks with his fingers. 

_Alright there?_ Eggsy asks cautiously. 

There's a wild, scared look to him; on guard and Eggsy can't figure out why, what he'd done. _I thought you'd left_ , Harry says. _That you had gone home._

Eggsy lifts the bag in his hand, kicking off his shoes. _Just needed a few things. I didn't want to wake you. Never have, actually._ He shrugs, self conscious. _You always look so—I dunno, peaceful, I guess… when you do._

Harry doesn't say anything, as if he is still trying to process the turn of events, come to terms with Eggsy standing before as if he had thoroughly expected and accepted that he had disappeared altogether. 

_I thought I'd make pancakes,_ Eggsy clarifies, still holding onto the bag, the plastic handles cutting into his wrist where it had twisted. _Like we used to._

There's a faint look of recognition, largely overshadowed by disbelief, on Harry's tired face. He looks between the bag and Eggsy before he nods, hands flexing at his sides. 

Eggsy sets the bag down by his feet and steps forward, hand coming to rest on Harry's wrist. 

_I'm not going anywhere, alright? You’ve got me, for better or worse,_ Eggsy says with a grin. 

Harry nods; then he leans down to kiss Eggsy, fondly and thoroughly, drawing out keen little sounds that bubble up in Eggsy's throat, their hands lacing together. 

_Alright,_ Eggsy says, almost breathless when they pull apart. _You're in charge of the whipped cream and strawberries._

Eggsy notices Harry looking at the ring sitting on the table when they walk through to the kitchen but neither of them saying anything, Harry smiling almost shyly as Eggsy unpacks the shopping bag and moves to pull down a mixing bowl from the cupboard. 

Eggsy sets about measuring and mixing the batter while Harry rinses the strawberries, diced them into a bowl with sugar sprinkled on the bottom. They bump shoulders on purpose, working wordlessly, a familiar routine for them both. The griddle on the stovetop sizzles when Eggsy throws a pat of butter in it, looking through the drawer for a ladle. 

_Looks like it'll rain today,_ Eggsy comments idly. 

_Good. Enough of this heat._

Eggsy shrugs, smirking. _I don't mind it, really._ He gestures at Harry, who's propped himself against the countertop, whisk and bowl of cream in his hands. _Get you walking around the house like that more often. Wouldn't complain, me._

Harry rolls his eyes though the corners of his mouth tick up in amusement. _Incorrigible,_ he adominishes, flicking the whisk in Eggsy's direction, sending drops of whipped cream flying and landing on his cheek. 

Harry sets the table while Eggsy cooks the pancakes, stacking them still steaming and fluffy on a plate, draping a tea towel over them to keep them warm. 

When Harry walks back into the kitchen, heading for the cutlery drawer, Eggsy intercepts him from behind, twining his arms around Harry's waist, and tugging him close. Harry hands instinctively come to cover Eggsy's, his broad hands resting over Eggsy's, spread out over Harry's stomach, aimlessly tracing the faded scars he has long ago memorized. 

Eggsy buries his face in between Harry's shoulders, takes in his warmth, the soft countours of his body, the smell of sleep still lingering on him. _Harry—_ he murmurs, a habit now of speaking into his skin that he will never break, reveling in the hum that vibrated over him, the way Harry's body would tense and then relax, _thank you._

_What for?_

_For loving me._

_Well, you make it so very easy._

And when Harry turns to kiss him, their arms still wrapped around each other, the rain starts. Gentle and calm at first, tapping at the window panes, then starting in earnest, falling with purpose, sapping out the heat and leaving the world cleansed and new. 


	11. Chapter 11

> _Take my hand_  
>  _Take my whole life, too_  
>  _For I can't help_  
>  _Falling in love with you_

There is an indescribable sense of belonging, a warmth that draws him in. And he thinks—without exception, without expectation, never in spite of. 

Love that's a shelter, a warm place to rest your head after a long day. 

His mum had told him once, not too long after Lee and long before Dean, it’s never easy to love with all your heart. She told him: you can't protect it from other people and what they'd do with it, how one day they might leave and take it with them and never come home. How they might make you so angry you want to take it back. How they might hurt you so badly that you think, what's the use of it anyway. Take it with you, what good is it to me now. 

But just because it isn't easy, doesn't mean you shouldn't have it all. Because there's the good and there's the bad and you take it all because that's what love is—for better or for worse. Especially the worse—it's when the other needs your love the most. 

And Eggsy thinks: a love just like that.

Eggsy does ask Harry to marry him, in time. He still has the ring he bought in Paris; scuffed and a little worse for wear, but Harry wears it every day and every time Eggsy sees it on his finger, he knows it was worth it, in the end.

_No, you can't put Eggsy on the invite. It isn't your name._

_The fuck it isn't my name! What do you call me, then?_

_It's not your given name,_ Harry corrects him gently. 

_No one’s gonna know who Gary is. Who do you know that calls me Gary?_

On their way home from a late supper, they've stopped on the sidewalk. Harry has been tugging at his scarf as they talk and it's come undone, the ends hanging across his shoulders. Eggsy is unravelling it as he continues and he laughs about it, a puff of breath that blooms to white in the cold.

_Your mother._

_She's an exception._

_I think your mother would want Gary on the invite._

And honestly, no one calls him Gary. And when his mum does, it's when she's right mad. It's like a dog whistle, he thinks amusedly, making him stop in his tracks and cringe at the shrill. 

But he mulls it over, tongue between his teeth, as he wraps up the cashmere scarf in a loop, then an expert knot, tucking the ends into Harry’s coat lapels, nodding in affirmation. Something good had come of his mandatory hours at the front of the shop, learning to tell the minute details of a bespoke suit and all its accompanying accessories. Even Harry looks down with an appreciative glance, eyebrow raised and a belated smile.

_Fine. Alright. But if people are all shocked that you're marrying some strange bloke named Gary, that's on you._

_I will take my chances, dear._

Eggsy's got the backs of his fingers curled against Harry’s flushed cheeks. Beyond and around them, London’s glowing amongst a dusky haze that's settled into the rolling streets. The sun is setting, etching up the sky with clouds and light. Everything golden before night, Harry’s eyes shine. Like the stars, all the stars, or the sun, or the full light of day. But even then, that's not right.

_You didn't have to do that._

_What?_

_My scarf._

_Well, you're gonna be my husband, right? So, my husband always has to look his best._

Eggsy's always thought it grand, feeling a bit smug, when he coaxed out that smile from Harry when he never meant to, the smile that stops the world spinning and causes the earth to shift beneath his feet. Eggsy grins back, another laugh and blooming white puffs of air, and he threads his fingers through Harry's and continue on towards home. 

It's everything, truly everything.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was truly a labour of love: brutal, exhausting, mind numbing love. I started it back in November of 2016, setting out to just write a cute little story about Harry and Eggsy getting married. It started to grow and grow until I took a step back from it, unable to see clearly where I wanted it to go. When my original idea for the BigBang fell through, I jumped on this and now it is this behemoth you see before you.
> 
> I have endless gratitude and thanks to so many people who, without them, this fic would probably never have seen the light of day.
> 
> **AnnaofAza** for being my flustered partner in crime, letting me moan and cry and complain endlessly while we both wrote right until the finish line. 
> 
> **czarinakitty** for giving me a thorough beta and lending me all their knowledge regarding the therapy, the PTSD and how to approach Harry and Eggsy's multitude of issues. You were absolutely invaluable and helped me make this fic so much better.
> 
> **hartwinorlose** , **thirstforfirth** and **mistyfish** for beta'ing this thing when it was such a mess, reassuring me of what I was doing right and keeping me focused.
> 
> **thisbirdhadflown** , **hisreindeerjumper** , **kingsmankingsmankingsman** and **canceriancommunist** for hand-holding, support and letting me bounce ideas off of you, get my head straight and continue on.
> 
> And to the reader: if you made it to the end, thank you. I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I have enjoyed writing it.


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